Piggy
by P.L. Wynter
Summary: She screamed until death told her to shut up, he was getting a headache. REPOSTED. A new epilogue added.
1. Chapter 1

Piggy

Chapter One

There were times in Sam Winchester's life when he couldn't help but take a step back and remind himself what it was like to be human. He thought he'd found it again during his four year excursion into college. He'd thought he'd found it again when he could go to sleep without worrying about what evil, hidden creatures were out there in the dark. He'd thought he'd found it again when he had found Jess. Love was not something Sam had dabbled in during his teenage years. So when he'd finally found it, it was like discovering all the things he'd missed out on in life wrapped up into a beautiful bundle of love and happiness that just so happened to call itself Jess. And Sam had been happy. Happier than he knew he could ever be.

So when Jess died, a part of Sam had died as well. Whatever hope of a normal, happy life Sam had built up during his college years was gone. Gone with the girl who had been pinned to the ceiling and burnt away. It was a pain that Sam had never felt before. He'd lost his mother to the same nasty creature behind the deaths, but Sam had never really known her. He had simple images of her face stuck in his mind, but he had no memories of laughing, loving, crying or even being scolded by her. Not like he had with Jess. And in a way, Sam felt guilty. Guilty for bringing this death to Jess. Guilty for ever thinking he could be happy and normal. Guilty for not wanting to avenge her death the same way his father and brother wanted to avenge his mother's. And Sam knew that's what he had to do.

Yet, months after Dean had shown up in his apartment in the middle of the night with the story of their missing father, months after the brothers had set off to find him, Sam was beginning to feel lost again. They had been sidetracked too many times and had too many close calls. And Sam felt his motivation slipping, leaving him to wonder why he was here, why he was allowing himself to be dragged into following the shadow of their father. The trip they had embarked on was wearing on both of the Winchester brothers. But Sam was sure he had played a part in his brother's current state of unease.

Sam had said things to Dean. Such things. Things that he wished he could claim not to mean. But the truth of the matter was that Sam had, in one way or another, meant every word that had come out of his mouth. Of course, his brain had been scattered by Dr. Ellicott, but it was still his brain, his thoughts. And he'd said them to Dean from behind the barrel of a handgun aimed at his brother's head.

Dean, being Dean, had said that he forgave Sam for what happened, no hard feelings, time to move on. Not a time for a chick flick moment. But Sam knew that Dean was hurt and it was more than just the physical bruises and scabs from the rock salt. It was a hurt that ran deep, to a place that couldn't be healed with medicine or rest. It would take time, time and proof to heal such wounds. And Sam didn't know how to give his brother either of those. As much as they bickered and cursed at each other, Sam loved his brother. And though he'd told Dean that he was sick of following his every order and sick of jumping head first whenever a possibility of their father arose, there was also a time when Sam had told Dean he'd die for him. Sam still meant what he said. But he knew it did little to ease the doubt he had planted in his brother's head. The doubt that was so uncharacteristic of Dean Winchester, self proclaimed superhero who always had a plan and could always be counted on to have your back.

All these thoughts and more were what filled up Sam's time while he sat in the passenger seat of Dean's cherished black Impala as they made their way down the highway. The radio was on and Dean was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to a Black Sabbath song that Sam knew he should know the name of by now, but still didn't. And other than a few questions of where to turn and where they were going, the car ride was silent between the brothers as they followed another set of coordinates to some unknown location. Sam had told Dean about the phone call that night in the motel room. About how he could hear their Dad on the other end, breathing, but not speaking. Dean had asked him how he knew, but Sam couldn't answer. He'd just known. Then the coordinates had come and they were off again. Off to some place that neither of them had heard of before, chasing some evil being that was killing off people in the small town of Shilling, Louisiana. And though he'd been reflecting on his dislike for the way things were going, Sam knew he had to go. Dean was going, and Sam wouldn't let him go alone. He'd continue to follow Dean blindly into situations, until they could come up with a better way to find their father.

"You think they got alligators?" Dean's voice broke into Sam's deep concentration and he lifted his head from where it was resting against the window to look over at his brother. Dean was staring straight ahead at the road, his body shifted to one side of his seat, looking uncomfortable yet settled at the same time. He also looked tired. Sam guessed his chest was still hurting him. It would be a while before it stopped. Rock salt was a bitch to be shot with at close range, hell, any range, when you were corporeal. "I hate alligators."

"They are indigenous to the area where we're headed to," Sam said, watching as Dean's face took on a disgusted one. Sam couldn't help but smile. "But if we don't go into any swamps, we should be good."

"Knowing our luck, Sammy," Dean grinned and looked over at his brother. "That'll be the first place we check out." Sam nodded, turning to look back out the window. He knew it had been an attempt on Dean's part to ease some of the tension in the car, but neither of them could seem to get it together. Sam decided that now was as good a time as any to get this thing off their chests.

"Dean, are we ever going to be good again?" Sam asked quietly, turning his head to get a good look at his brother's face.

Predictably, Dean defused the question's nature. "Sammy, I've always been good. Evil fears the name Dean Winchester. But don't worry your pretty little self, excellence runs in this family, so I'm sure some of my better qualities will be rubbing off on you soon."

Sam sighed, knowing what his brother was trying to do. "You know what I meant," he said quietly. "This isn't just going to go away with time."

"Why not?" Sam was surprised to find Dean's face so pensive. "Time is the medicine of the mortal world, Sammy."

Letting out a low, gruff chuckle, Sam asked, "Who told you that?"

"I borrowed the voices inside your head for a while." Sam rolled his eyes as Dean glanced over at him with a grin. Sam knew it was hopeless to get his brother to talk about what they had gone through. He leaned his head back against the window and watched the scenery pass by. He didn't expect Dean to go on. "Look, Sammy…"

"_Sam_," Sam interrupted, but then looked over at Dean to encourage him to go on.

"_Sammy_," Dean stressed. "As far as I'm concerned, we're good. You can't let everything that happens on a hunt toy with your head. Besides, this was my debt to pay for the shapeshifter. So now we're even."

"Dean, that wasn't you saying those things," Sam countered. He knew his brother still felt awkward with the whole shapeshifter ordeal. Killing something that has your face can really mess with your head. Sam hadn't known his brother still thought of it. "In that asylum, that was actually me. My thoughts, no matter how deep down they were, they were still mine. And…"

"Sammy," Dean broke in, his face stony. "The sooner we both realize you're not perfect, the sooner this will be behind us." And after a slight pause, he added, "Just try to be more like me, that's all you can do."

"But…"

"Let's just forget it, okay?" Dean asked and Sam saw the plead in his eyes. He knew his brother hated talking about what was going on inside his head, and though Sam thought they were getting somewhere, he knew not to push it.

"For now," Sam answered. Dean seemed to be okay with that answer. "But sooner or later, we're going to have to talk about it."

Dean snorted and Sam glanced at him again, wondering what his brother was thinking now. The playfulness was back in Dean's eyes as he said, "You've sure been Disneyland-ish lately."

"Disneyland-ish?" Sam questioned.

"Yup," was all Dean answered with.

"So now you're making up words?" Sam questioned, knowing that all thought of a serious conversation was now gone from Dean's mind. He figured he might as well follow par, knowing that when Dean didn't want to talk, he either joked or got angry and Sam was just glad that he was joking now. An angry Dean wasn't fun to be around.

Dean turned up the radio as Metallica came on. "I'm the older brother. That means I have the power to make up words. Keeps the relationship interesting, don't you think, sweetheart?"

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Sam chuckled and turned to look out the window once more. He rested his head on his hand as his elbow was propped up on the door. Even though the nicknames were crude, Sam couldn't help but feel…safe, when they were used. It meant that no matter what, Sam and Dean's relationship wasn't too far gone for them not to jest and poke fun at each other. Sam had also learned to recognize such names as a term of endearment when they came from Dean's mouth. Dean rarely told someone that he loved them in all honesty. He said it a lot, jokingly, but he never really said it to explain his true feelings. So the fallback for the lack of those kind of endearments was the jesting between the two.

Sam had always found it an odd sort of relationship, and he couldn't really remember when it had transformed into what it was. They'd jested crudely before Sam left for college, but he couldn't remember when Dean stopped telling Sam that he loved him and stopped hugging him when he was scared. Sam always knew that Dean still held the same feelings towards him, but somewhere along the way, Dean had turned his emotions inwards. Whatever caused the change, Sam had never found out, and Dean never even acknowledged there had been a change. Sam wondered if Dean even noticed. He was sure he did. Dean was smart, smart enough to step back and check himself every once in a while, so he was smart enough to realize what he was doing. Though Sam wasn't sure Dean thought it was such a bad thing. Hell, Sam wasn't sure it was such a bad thing. He just knew that sometimes, he missed the old Dean, and sometimes, he was glad his brother was able to shake things off and laugh at their follies.

"How close are we?" Dean asked an hour later. Sam, who'd been trying to sleep for that hour but failed miserably, leaned forward and tugged the map out of the glove box. He opened it and look at the red "X" they had marked over Shilling, Louisiana. He looked up to see where they were and when he saw a sign telling them how far the bigger cities were, he nodded.

"It's the next exit and then thirty miles from there," Sam said, looking over at his brother. Dean looked more tired than he had earlier. "You know, a small town like Shilling, not many things will be open late. I say we stop at the motel now and call it a night. Start asking around in the morning."

Dean looked ready to protest, but he shifted in his seat and couldn't hold back the grimace. Sam looked away, pretending to not notice as his brother lifted a hand to his chest and seemed to rub it absentmindedly. "Yeah, nine o'clock, everyone's either in bed or drunk by now." At Sam's raised eyebrow, Dean grinned. "Small town, they start early." Sam only shook his head.

Pulling off the highway, their motel options were limited to only one. A shabby looking place with part of its neon sign burnt out. Sam guessed it didn't get much business. But it was what they were used to. Dean seemed to always pick these sorts of motels, so he had no problem pulling in and getting a room. Sam packed up a few things from the trunk into a duffle bag before waiting for his brother to return with the room key.

While time allowed, Sam took the opportunity to scan their surroundings. Aside from the hotel, there wasn't much else out there. A gas station across the street with one pump and a small gift and snack shop that looked to be owned by the same people. Sam was surprised to find that the snack shop was still open. Sam shrugged. Might as well since he was waiting.

Heading across the dead street, Sam made it to the snack shop and almost hesitantly opened the door. He half expected to find some hillbilly man missing his teeth and wearing overalls and no shirt standing behind the counter. What he didn't expect was the kind looking, older man sitting behind the counter reading a thick book. The man had white hair and a healthy looking beard. He looked up as Sam entered and took off his glasses.

"Evenin' young fellow," the man said, smiling. Sam was delighted to see the man had all his teeth.

"Evening," Sam replied.

"What can I do fer ya?" the man closed his book and stood.

Sam looked around the store. On one side of the establishment, there were gifts and souvenirs. Post cards that showcased the best Louisiana had to offer, key chains, model cars, dreamcatchers, and an odd assortment of hand crafted items. Figurines, mostly of guys with guitars or alligators. Sam was almost tempted to buy one for Dean, but thought otherwise. They didn't have money to spend on trivial things like that. On the other side of the store were the snacks. It was more like a mini grocery store. It had everything from eggs, bread, and milk to chips, cookies and even freshly baked pastries. Overall, it was pretty impressive for its small size.

"Just making a munchie run," Sam smiled at the man. He settled on collecting some cold subs and a few cans of soda. He deposited them on the counter and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket.

"This all you want?" The man asked, eyeing the food on the counter.

Sam nodded. "That'll do." The man began to tally up the cost on the cash register. "This is a nice place you've got here," Sam decided to use the time that was given to him.

The man looked at him with a genuine smile. "Why thank you," he said. "We don't get many people through here. Mainly folks who come in and ask for directions. Haven't sold a key chain in years." Sam smiled at that. "That'll be $6.50."

"Are you sure?" Sam asked, pulling money out of his wallet. "That seems a little low."

"I'm sure," the man smiled back, accepting Sam's money. He handed him change and reached under the counter before pulling out a snickers bar. "Free with purchase."

"Why, thank you," Sam mocked the earlier statement, not really used to the kindness. In their line of work, Sam and Dean rarely came across kindness from strangers. Most of the time, they were trying to weasel their way behind scenes. And most of the time it ended with verbal fights, sometimes fist fights. Kindness was something they knew not to expect, so when they came across it, it was always surprising. Sam decided to play off that kindness while he had it. "Say, we're headed towards Shilling. Do you happen to know anything about what's going on out there?"

"Shilling, eh?" the man nodded, twisting his lips at his obvious hesitation to talk about it. Finally, the man gave in. "Been a lot of strange things going on in that town."

"Strange things?" Sam urged, hoping he'd elaborate.

The man eyed him suddenly. Sam felt unusually uncomfortable beneath the older man's scrutiny. But there wasn't any malice in his eyes, so Sam held his ground, waiting for him to go on. "What's your name, son?" he asked at last.

Sam's mind went to work immediately and before he could even comprehend what he was saying, he spit out one of his aliases off the top of his head. "Sam White."

"Sam," the man repeated, nodding his approval. "Samuel. A good, strong name." He reached out a hand which Sam took readily. "Conroy Malone." He paused, eyeing Sam again. "Sam, you wouldn't happen to be one of them ghost hunters now, would you?"

The question struck him like a smack to the face. He stood stunned for a moment, not knowing how to answer. He stared dumbly at the man. He knew he should be saying something, coming up with some job or reason as to why they were headed to Shilling, but he couldn't think of anything. Instead, he found himself stuttering an unsure, "Yeah."

Conroy shook his head. "That's what I thought." He turned around and reached up to the shelves behind him, pulling out a map. "You'll need one of these then." He handed it over to Sam.

"What is it?" Sam asked, turning it over in his hands.

"It's a map, boy. You'd think there'd be more sense in that head of yours," Conroy joked, to which Sam looked up, caught in the humor that was rivaling Dean's. The thought made a smile twitch on his lips. Dean would get along with Conroy, no doubt. "I'm fooling with you, son. It's a map of the woods near and around Shilling. We've had people like you coming for weeks now. Since the killings started. Ghost hunters. Bah," Conroy waved a hand, warding off the idea. "They walk around with their fancy cameras and heat machines and act like they're professional. So tell me something, Sam. What do you do when you find a ghost out there?"

_Shoot it with rock salt, find its grave, burn its bones._ "I…I don't know. Never actually found one."

Conroy snorted. "That's what I thought. Listen, son," Conroy took on a serious look. "I like you so I'm gonna give you a piece of advice, and you'd better listen to your elders. Don't go chasing some myth with no way to kill the son of a bitch. Lots of you boys go out there and some don't come back."

That peaked Sam's interest. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Conroy sighed. "Been a lot of killings up in Shilling lately. Killings they say were at the hand of a ghost. But I'm not so sure that's what it is."

"You don't believe in ghosts?" Sam asked.

"Course I believe in ghosts!" Conroy answered, eyes lighting up. "I plan on being one when I die," he chuckled and gave Sam's arm a slight punch over the counter. "Gonna come back and haunt my wife. She's been haunting me for thirty years. The only way I can haunt her back is to die and come back a ghost. That'll blow her away." There was humor there, but Sam gave a small prayer hoping that Conroy wasn't actually serious and didn't get his wish. "But whatever's out there killing those people, it ain't no ghost, at least not the ordinary kinds."

"I'm not following," Sam played dumb, hoping he'd get something Dean and he could use.

Conroy sighed again, giving his head a scratch. "It don't just kill at random. It's like it chooses whose gonna bite it. And looking at all the choices, if you ask me, it's doing us a community service."

"By killing people?" Sam asked, shocked to hear that come from this kind man's mouth.

"Yeah," Conroy nodded. "All those people it's killed, they've all been…cocky, arrogant big shots. Rude, hurtful, not giving a hoot about anyone else. Just plain bastards. Shilling is better without them if you ask me."

Dean chose that moment to poke his head into the door. "Hey, Sammy, where'd you run off to?" Dean asked when he spotted Sam. He came to stand next to his younger brother.

"_Sam_," Sam corrected out of habit. "Just getting some provisions. Learning a little about that ghost up there in Shilling." Dean gave Sam a sharp, questioning look before turning to survey Conroy.

Conroy just surveyed him back. It was almost comical the way the two were sizing each other up. They moved in the same way, and made eye contact at the same moment. "You one of those ghost hunters too?" Conroy asked, but didn't give Dean a chance to answer. "Well, I'm telling you. You boys be careful up there, right? It seems to be killing the scum of the town, but that don't prove nothing. Don't know why you'd want to run around chasing myths anyhow."

Sam smiled and gathered the food off the counter. He handed Dean one of the subs and nodded his head towards Conroy. "Thank you, for all of this. And don't worry; we'll be careful up there."

"Hey, son!" Conroy called as they were almost out the door. Sam turned to look at the man, wondering what more the man could possibly say to them. Instead, a snickers bar came flying towards Sam, who barely caught it in time. "Don't want you two killing each other over chocolate."

Sam chuckled and nodded his head in appreciation before heading towards their motel room.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

_Somewhere, there was a little girl crying. He couldn't figure out which way it was coming from. When he thought he could pin down the direction, he'd take two steps and realize he was wrong. The sobs were growing in intensity, filing his head, drowning out all other noise. He tried to remember who it was who was crying and why she would be crying, but he couldn't. He could almost see her, like a distant memory of a glance in her direction, a face so blurry scribbled into the back of his mind. He thought he should know her, but the memory was too old, too corrupted, too far gone for him to pull any details from it._

_The little girl was sobbing heavily, choking on tears and pain and emotion. He felt desperation rise up in his chest. Desperation to find this little girl and help her, make her stop crying, take away whatever pain she was in. But there was darkness all around him. Faint moonlight filtered through some obstruction over his head and in the small glitters of blue glow, he could barely make out silhouettes of trees, bare branches stripped of their leaves, dying in the dark. But even the slight glimpses of nature couldn't help him orient himself to the crying, which was still growing, hurting his ears. _

_And then, the crying turned to screaming and he felt his heart race and panic begin to set in. The little girl was screaming as though she were being murdered and he wondered slightly if that was what was happening. He felt those screams echo all around him. He turned towards it, wanting to see where to go, wanting to see where to turn to help her, but with every turn, the darkness only grew and suddenly, he could turn no more. The moonlight faded away and he was left in the pitch black emptiness of whatever hell he had ventured into. When he tried to move, he couldn't. When he tried to call out, his voice was drowned in the young girl's screams. _

_The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he knew, beyond all other notions, he knew there was someone behind him. His skin began to prickle up, expecting to be touched and the feeling was worse than physical pain. It was the expectation, suspense, waiting to be touched by whoever had found him now. And then he could feel the breath on the back of his neck. Hot breath, wavering slightly and he could no longer take it. Ready to attack the darkness should he have to, he spun. _

_She was upon him before he could scream. _

Sam jolted up in his bed, the blanket falling off his torso. He was sweating, panting, his undershirt clung to his chest. It took a moment for his heart to stop racing. He closed his eyes, reminding himself that he was in a motel room, not lost in some deep darkness being attacked. He was in a motel, fed, showered, perfectly safe in his bed and Dean was there as well. Sam glanced over at his brother, seeing that Dean was still asleep. He sighed with relief. Dean had been sleeping more soundly than usual. Sam attributed it to his chest wound and the fatigue that was accompanying Dean's healing. Still, he sort of missed having Dean wake up when Sam was jolted with a nightmare. It was a comforting thing to know Dean was there, lending his support should Sam need it. But Dean needed to sleep, Sam knew that.

Getting up slowly, Sam was surprised that he was still shaking slightly. The nightmare had really affected him. Though, he couldn't for the life of him figure out what it had been about. Sam's dreams were normally vivid, giving him some kind of clue. But this one, all it had been was dark.

Sam shook his head to clear the lingering thoughts and went to the bathroom, closing the door gently as to not wake his brother. He turned on the faucet and splashed water onto his face before looking at himself in the mirror. There was a stranger staring back at him. A stranger that Sam knew all too well. He'd changed. He knew he had changed. Changed when he had left for college without looking back. Changed when Dean had shown up and then when Jess died. And then he had changed again sometime during this trip with Dean to find their father. As much as he wanted to find the bastard who'd killed Jess and his mother, Sam couldn't help but realize that he got a sick pleasure out of killing the evil things they came across. That had always been Dean's guilty pleasure, but somewhere along the line, Sam had begun to find a relief whenever one of the bastards died.

Rubbing his hands over his face, Sam let out a long sigh and sat down on the closed toilet. It was starting to get chilly out, but Sam welcomed the chill. It reminded him he was alive. The nightmare was still bothering him. He could almost still hear the crying and screaming echoing inside his head. Distantly, he wondered if this was another one of _those_ dreams. The dreams that seemed to come true. But if it was, he had no idea what it meant. He didn't even want to think about what the darkness symbolized.

There was a crash and then a muffled string of swear words from outside the bathroom which alerted Sam that Dean was awake. Sam checked himself, taking in a deep breath to try and calm himself more before he rose and opened the bathroom door. Dean was picking their duffle bag up off the floor, where the contents had spilled after he'd tripped over the chair. Sam smiled at Dean's ruffled hair and sleepy eyes.

"Trip?" Sam asked, grinning as Dean shot him a glare.

"Fuck off," Dean spat. Sam chuckled and climbed back into bed. Dean finished gathering the spilled contents and turned to look at him, looking him over. Sam hoped that Dean wouldn't notice the tension still riding in his shoulders or the nervous shakes that just barely lingered in his hands. If he did notice, he pretended not to. "Can't sleep?" he asked groggily.

"Yeah," Sam answered, though he wasn't going to elaborate. "Did I wake you?"

"Nah," Dean shook his head, heading towards the bathroom. "Gotta take a piss."

"How eloquent," Sam chuckled.

"I don't need to be eloquent with you," Dean answered, closing the bathroom door. Then he shouted, "Just the ladies."

Sam rolled his eyes. Knowing that he wouldn't be getting any more sleep tonight, he reached for the laptop on the end table next to him. He decided to do a little research before they headed to town in the morning. He typed in the town of Shilling. There weren't many things that came up, but he got a few good hits. A couple newspaper articles on the recent killings, which would be useful, and a few articles from years back, which he'd have to read through to determine whether or not they could be used.

The toilet flushed and Dean came out of the bathroom. He gave Sam a look before saying, "Not even going to try and sleep?"

"Nah," Sam mimicked his brother's earlier response, pulling a dumb look to accent it. Dean made a face, typical of brothers. "I'm going to go over the names again of the victims, see if I can find some sort of connection. Conroy said they were all pretty mean people, but there has to be something more concrete that we can use to find out how its picking its victims. Besides," he added as he saw Dean was still looking at him skeptically. "I'm not really that tired."

Dean snorted and climbed into bed. Sam watched as he eased himself down, looking once again at Dean's chest. It looked better than that first night, when Dean had taken off his shirt and Sam had seen the horror of what he had done to his brother. The bruising had faded and the scabs had begun to disappear, leaving pink dots littering Dean's skin. But it would be a while before it fully went away. Sam had been worried that perhaps Dean had broken his sternum, but after some painful prodding, Dean had concluded he was just bruised. Although, a bruised sternum hurt just as bad, and lasted just as long.

"That is why I'm the better looking one," Dean said as he made himself comfortable, already starting to drift off. "More beauty sleep."

Sam couldn't help but chuckle. He would have retorted, but Dean had already fallen asleep. Instead, he turned his attention back to the articles. There had been six killings in all. Four local residents and two out of towners, one of which whose name was not disclosed because they were still looking for the closest relatives. Carl Hannigan, Jason Meyers, Harley Jensen, Pete Flannery, Ally Westridge, and the sixth unnamed body. The articles didn't give him much information about any of the victims, other than their ages and close relatives, which were both spread out throughout the spectrum. There wasn't much to go on and Sam sighed.

The only helpful thing that the article supplied about the deaths was that their bodies had all been found in similar fashion. Hands bloodied and broken, scratches on their arms, chest and stomach, and bruising throughout their body. A quote from the coroner said that all of them looked as though they'd been in a fight. But other than the manner of their condition when they were found, the cause of death ranged from suffocation to heart attack to blunt force trauma to the head. And the bodies had been found at different locations. Sam had no idea what kind of ghost, or other creature, was so particular with its killings. He'd heard of a few cases of ghosts leaving bodies spread out, but the majority of ghost attacks happened in a concentrated area, usually near the ghost's resting spot.

Sam read through the other articles and besides coming across a few alligator attacks, something which he would most definitely show Dean in the morning, missing persons, and a drowning, he didn't find anything useful. He switched off the laptop and looked at the clock. It was a quarter pass six. He decided to take a shower and then wake Dean up. They should get started early.

Once they were on the road again, it wasn't long before they drove into Shilling. Sam had offered to drive while Dean read over the articles and whatever notes Sam had made about them last night. He had told Dean everything that Conroy had said about the killings and what kind of people were being killed, but both brothers were still skeptical.

"Where do you think we should start first?" Sam asked.

Dean looked up from the laptop and quickly scanned the limited shops in town. He nodded towards one in particular. "That café looks like as good a place as any."

Sam scoffed and looked at his brother. "You're just looking for food."

Dean nodded nonchalantly, as if there was nothing wrong with that. "Can't work on an empty stomach." Dean looked up at him and in all seriousness said, "If you're stalking your prey and your stomach growls, baddie wins."

Chuckling slightly, Sam pulled into the café and chanced a guess. "You know this from experience?"

Nodding sternly, Dean answered. "Damn right."

"What were you hunting?" Sam asked as they sat down at a table, intrigued now that such a thing had happened to his brother and he had no knowledge of it.

"Dad," Dean gave with a shrug.

Sam gave an unbelieving laugh and shook his head. Of course it would have been their father who'd caught Dean with his mistake. In a way, it was better than some demon or ghoul, because there were no scars involved, but still, it must have been fodder for a hard lesson between father and son. Their Dad had always given them tips and pointers about hunting. Most of them were aimed at Dean. When Sam had screwed up on a hunt, their Dad had shown worry, asked him if he knew what he did wrong and then had moved on. When Dean screwed up on a hunt, their Dad got angry. Told him he should know better and then spent whatever free time they could muster going over what Dean had done wrong and engraving it into his mind that he should never do it again. Sam wondered if that had changed after he left for college.

John Winchester had always been harder on Dean than he had on Sam. He'd never known why, but he always guessed it was because their father wanted Dean to be the best. He wanted Dean to be the golden child, the one who would take on the business when he left…or was killed. The thought made Sam cringe. John hadn't talked about it often, but he remembered overhearing his father telling Dean that should anything happen to him, he'd be in charge. Sam guessed that's why he was listening to Dean now. Not because Dean was older, but because Dean had taken over for their father as it had been engrained in him to do so. Secretly, Sam hated their father for that. He hated Dean for being so sickeningly loyal to their father, but more than that, he hated their father for not giving Dean the choice to be anything but. Perhaps that's why Sam had left in the first place.

"What can I get you boys this morning?" the waitress broke his thoughts and he looked up at her.

"Um…one egg and toast, please," Sam answered. He hoped she hadn't been standing there long, waiting for him. Looking over at Dean, he saw that his brother was looking at the menu, instead of staring at him, so he guessed he hadn't been lost in his thoughts for too long.

Dean ordered a much fuller breakfast before the waitress left to put their order in. Sam watched as his brother unloaded two packs of sugar and two creamers into his coffee before chugging half of the liquid down. Dean gave a sigh of content before he noticed Sam was watching him and winked. "She totally wants me."

Exasperated at his brother's predictable thoughts, Sam shook his head. "No she doesn't. She just wants a big tip."

"Dude, the ladies can't resist this face," Dean informed him, pointing a finger in his direction. "And one day, if you play your cards right, I'll show you some moves."

"I don't need any lessons from you," Sam countered.

Dean scoffed playfully and put a hand to his chest. "You wound me, Sam." Sam thought the statement was crudely ironic, but didn't say anything. Instead, he took a few sips of his coffee and they waited for their food to be served. He briefly thought of telling Dean about the dream he had last night, but he quickly pushed that thought aside. There was nothing really to tell. Dark, little girl, screaming, that's all he'd be able to say. If he didn't understand his own dreams, how the hell was Dean going to understand them? Besides, he didn't want to give Dean any more reasons to tease him. Dean seemed to believe that Sam had some ESP thing going on, but Sam wasn't sure what it was. Sometimes, he had dreams that came true and sometimes he could feel the presence of spirits. It sounded odd, even to him.

"Who should we pay a visit to first?" Sam asked, picking at the edges of his toast. He'd tried to eat, but he wasn't all that hungry. His appetite had been less than satisfactory since he'd left Stanford. Dean had bugged him about it at first, but had given up when it got him nowhere.

Swallowing the food in his mouth, Dean shrugged a little before saying, "We could always start at the beginning. Hannigan?"

"He doesn't have any relatives around here. And his closest neighbor is a mile from his house," Sam answered, watching Dean shovel food into his mouth, weighting out their other options in his head.

"Then how about the most recent? That out of town guy. That old kook at the snack shop said he was a ghost hunter, so let's check out his partner. Get a name, see if we can find a connection between him and the others."

"He's not an old kook," Sam said, finishing off his coffee and leaning back. Dean just gave him a strange look before nodding to the plate in front of Sam, which was barely touched.

"You gonna eat that?" Dean asked, looking up. Sam almost laughed out loud at the begging look in Dean's eyes. He was like a dog waiting for scraps from off the table. But Sam shook his head and slid the plate towards Dean anyway. "Sweet." Was all the thanks he got.

"You boys ghost hunters?" For the second time since they'd gotten here, Sam was surprised by the question. He wasn't used to people being so open about ghosts and whatnot, or so accepting. Sam wondered if the whole town was convinced they had a ghost on their hands. Murders did strange things like that, Sam knew. But he couldn't help but wonder why no one was blaming the murders on a serial killer. Everyone had just automatically thought it was a ghost. He looked up at the waitress who had asked them the question. She'd put the bill on the table and was now standing with her hands on her hips, looking at them as though she meant business.

Dean took the initiative. "Sure are, ma'am," he gave his charming smile. Dean always pulled that smile on women he met. Usually it was flirting to get information and nothing more. And usually it worked. But this woman didn't seem phased by it. Sam gave her brownie points for that. She'd probably seen her fair share of flirty men come in and out of the diner. "Got any tips for us?"

"Yeah," she motioned towards the bill on the table. "Pay your bill, tip me big, and go home."

Dean, still grinning, reached for his wallet. "Demanding," he pulled out the money and looked over at Sam. "A strong woman, Sammy." He placed it on the table before looking back up at her. "Sweetheart, you and me'd get along great."

The waitress gave him a harsh smile that was obviously forced before swiping the bill and money from the table and pocketing both. "Keep dreaming, sugar," she said, turning to leave but then stopping. She looked back at Dean, who was still sitting with the same cocky grin on his face. "You really gonna go out there?" She asked, concern suddenly overcoming her features.

"Yeah," Sam answered, not trusting Dean with the answer. His brother was still in flirt mode. "Why?"

"Just be careful," she said, the humor out of her voice.

Dean put a hand over his heart, "Aww, you do care," he smiled, this time showing her that he was joking. But she didn't seem to be receptive of the joke. The waitress looked as though she wanted to say something, but just shook her head. Instead, she pointed her finger at Dean. "Just, go talk to Blaine Beaumont before you do. He's up the street at the bed and breakfast. His brother convinced him to go out looking for that ghost too."

"What happened?" Sam asked, though he thought he already knew the answer.

"He died."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The bed and breakfast turned out to be more of a house that rented out its two spare rooms. A good looking house, but not exactly Sam's idea of what a bed and breakfast should look like. It was an old farm house, painted white with blue shutters, with a porch that wrapped halfway around each side. There were two porch swings and countless chairs. It looked welcoming, but Sam had always thought of a bed and breakfast as being a mini mansion on the inside. Perhaps that had just been the ones his Dad used to take him and Dean to when they were little and needed a break.

An older man sat in a rocking chair, smoking a pipe. He acknowledged Sam and Dean with a raise of the pipe as they got out of the car and headed towards the entrance. As they got to the steps, an older woman came out with a tray of lemonades. She looked surprised to see them but her smile was warm and she set the tray down on a table.

"Well welcome!" she said cheerfully. "Are you boys looking for a room?" She turned to her husband before they could answer. "Hank! Set these boys up with a room." When Hank didn't move, she waved her hands at him. "Go on now!"

"Actually," Dean broke in, earning the attention of the couple. "We're not here for a room. We're actually looking for Blaine Beaumont. Is he still here?"

The woman came to the front of the porch and wrapped her arm around one of the wood pillars. The woman had graying black hair, giving her an almost silvery shimmer. She had her hair pulled back into a bun. Her face looked as though it had just begun to wrinkle, though there were years of lines around her eyes. But all in all, she still looked pretty. Sam wondered how old she was, couldn't be older than 60.

"You aren't cops are you?" the woman asked. "That boy's been questioned to death, what more could you possibly need to know?" she took on a defensive nature, almost motherly.

"We're not cops," Sam assured her.

At that, Hank stood up and came to stand next to his wife. He eyed the two of them warily, pulling the pipe from his mouth. He tapped the end of it on his cheek, studying and thinking for a moment. "You're more of those damn ghost hunter yahoos, ain't ya?" Hank pointed a finger at them. "We don't need more of your kind around here. There ain't no ghost and there ain't no more room for young bloods such as yourselves getting killed."

"Hank," the woman said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Hank didn't seem to notice. Instead, he turned and threw his hands up. "The world's gone nuts. It's that damned television, putting stories in there heads…" his voice trailed off as he entered the house and disappeared.

Sam and Dean stood still, not sure what to say or do. The woman smiled warmly at them before descending the steps. "I'm sorry about Hank," she said, glancing slightly towards the house. "He's been battling Alzheimer's for the past year. All this talk about ghosts and such has him in a fuss." She held out her hand. "Mary Reynolds."

Sam shook her hand and Dean followed suit. "I'm Sam and this is my brother, Dean."

That earned a rather sharp glare from Dean to which Sam promptly ignored. He knew what his brother was thinking. But Sam didn't feel like aliases were needed in this town. If there really was a ghost out there, Sam and Dean would be welcomed with open arms in a town like this.

"It's nice to meet you," Mary said. "So, you are ghost hunters then?"

"Only on the weekends," Dean offered, looking towards the house. Sam looked too and was able to spot what had drawn Dean's attention. Someone was peaking through the curtains of the upstairs window. Sam guessed it was Blaine Beaumont.

Mary looked them over suddenly. "Where are your cameras?"

"What?" Sam asked, frowning.

"Your cameras," Mary repeated. When Sam and Dean just looked at her, she gave them a questioning glance. "You ghost hunters, you all carry cameras and recorders…to catch glimpses of ghosts. That's what you do, right? So where are yours?"

Sam realized what she was saying. "They're in the car. We didn't think we'd need them here." Mary nodded, accepting the answer. Sam didn't have the heart to tell her that they weren't those kind of hunters. When Conroy had first asked him if he was a ghost hunter, he'd half hoped that there were other people like him and Dean around. But Mary had just doused whatever hope that had been smoldering of that happening. The ghost hunters that were coming to Shilling weren't their type of hunters. They weren't really hunters at all. More like…documentary filmmakers. Sam had never really understood, or liked, those types of ghost hunters. Most of the time, they were filming nothing and made big deals out of smudges on the lens or flashes of light. And when one actually found a ghost, they packed it up and called it a night, not doing anything to dispel said ghost.

"Mary," Dean said, drawing Sam's attention back to the conversation. "We'd really like to talk to Blaine."

Mary sighed and looked at Dean with a sweet sort of smile. "He's been through a lot. I think it would just be better if you let him have a few days to collect himself." She patted Dean on the shoulder. "It's hard losing a brother."

"It would really help us if we could talk to him now," Sam said, drawing Mary's attention. "We're planning on doing a little hunting tonight and it would really help if we knew what we were looking for, especially if there's an angry spirit out there."

Mary seemed to think for a moment, looking at both Dean and Sam before she nodded and stepped aside. "Go ahead. Don't want you getting into any trouble out there. He's upstairs to the right."

"Thank you," Dean and Sam said in unison. Dean whipped his head towards Sam before quickly spitting out, "Jinx."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean, I don't play those stupid games anymore."

Dean pointed a finger at him. "Hey, bro, you just opened yourself to a slew of bad luck."

"That's a myth," Sam countered as they climbed the steps and headed into the house.

"So was Bloody Mary, and look how that turned out," Dean called back to Sam, who frowned.

Sam rushed to catch up with Dean. "Do you really have bad luck if you break a jinx?" He asked, lowering his voice so no one could hear. Dean just turned and gave him a classic Dean Winchester grin before he continued up the steps. "Dean!" Sam called, worried now that perhaps he had just cursed himself. "You're being a jackass!"

"Comes with the territory," Dean answered, before stopping in front of a door. Sam stopped himself from continuing the banter with his brother, knowing that right now was not the time. But they would continue this discussion later, just like so many other discussions they had never finished. Dean raised a hand and knocked on the door, clearing his throat. "Blaine?" he called gently. "We'd like to talk to you about your brother."

"I told your detective buddies everything I know! Just leave me alone," a strangled voice called from inside the room.

Sam stepped up next to his brother. "Blaine, we aren't cops," he found himself saying for the second time. He waited for a response, but none came. "We're ghost hunters, like you," he added, hoping that would stir Blaine up a bit to talk to them. But there still wasn't a response. "Look, we were hoping you could tell us what happened so we'd know what to look out for."

The door unlocked and Sam and Dean both took a step back as it opened, revealing a rather tired looking man dressed in an undershirt and pajama bottoms. His eyes were puffy and his hair disheveled. His mouth seemed to be set into a permanent frown. But he eyed them both and after concluding in his head that they weren't dangerous, he opened the door all the way and went to sit back down on his bed, near the window.

"Thank you," Sam said, knowing that they were now treading on fragile ground. They had to play by Blaine's rules now in order to get anything out of him. If they didn't, he could shut them out and they'd never know what they were dealing with. "A waitress at the restaurant told us to come and talk to you."

"Lucille," Blaine whispered quietly. His face suddenly crumpled. "Adam had set up a date with her."

"Adam," Dean repeated, standing near a desk opposite Blaine. Sam sat down in one of the chairs, leaning forward with his hands knit together, trying to look as nice and caring as possible. "He was your brother?"

Blaine nodded, bringing a hand to his face and rubbing it as if he could rub away the pain etched there. He was gazing out the window, almost as if he were waiting for someone. Blaine couldn't be much older than Dean, Sam realized when Blaine pulled his legs up and hugged them close to his chest. He was scrawny, and he looked young, incredibly young.

"Blaine, can you tell us what happened?" Sam coaxed gently. "We're still a little fuzzy on where and how all of this is happening."

Sucking in a breath, Blaine looked over at Sam and then his eyes drifted towards Dean, where they lingered for a moment. Then he went back to gazing out the window. "I don't know how it happened," he said at last.

"Well, can you just tell us what you remember?" Dean asked.

At first, Sam didn't think that Blaine was going to cooperate. He looked over at Dean, whose patience was obviously winding down. Sam thought about telling Dean to leave the room, but he didn't have to as Blaine started talking.

"We were gonna camp out for the night…"

"_This sucks," Blaine complained as, once again, mud seeped over the top of his boot and proceeded to be squished into his socks and around his toes. He hated the thought that maybe a leech or something else gross had just been deposited there. Adam was up ahead, his video camera casting a soft glow. He looked up when his brother spoke up. _

"_No it doesn't," Adam said. "This is great. You're just being a little bitch." Blaine chose to ignore that comment. "Go back if you want to, or are you too scared to go by yourself?" Adam turned and popped a fake malicious grin at his brother. _

"_I'm not scared," Blaine said immediately, though his voice gave him away when it quavered. He sighed and looked around him. "There's nothing out here, Adam," he said. "Just trees, mud, bugs and maybe an alligator. Maybe!" Blaine struggled through the knee deep mud to reach his brother, who had paused near a tree. When he noticed his brother's attention was on the camera more than him, he looked at the video screen. "What?" _

"_Thought I saw something," Adam replied, his voice low, distant. Blaine looked around them, feeling suddenly paranoid. _

"_What'd you see?" he asked, his voice quiet, merely a whisper. _

_Adam shook his head. "It was probably nothing," he said, looking up as well. Suddenly, Adam's eyes went wide and he reached and grabbed hold of his brother's shoulder. He yelled, "Watch out!" _

_Blaine, on pure instinct, dove to the ground, ignoring the mud that was now all over him. He managed to keep his face out of it, though he covered his head, knowing that for sure, this was it. For sure his brother had gotten him killed. Any minute now, some swamp creature was going to grab him and claw out his eyes. But suddenly, he heard something that he didn't expect. It was Adam, and he was laughing. He rolled over in the mud and looked at his brother, who was bent over, clutching his stomach with one hand on his knee and laughing so hard his face was turning red. _

"_You should have seen your face, man!" Adam said between laughing fits. _

_Blaine clenched his hands into fists. "You're an asshole!" he yelled, suddenly furious. He stood up, the plopping sound as he pulled himself out of the mud only making Adam laugh harder. Blaine had had enough. He wiped the biggest chunks of mud off of himself and then looked at Adam, waiting for his laughter to die down a bit before he said, "I'm done. You're on your own." _

_Adam slowed to a hard chuckle as he said, "Aww, come on, Blaine. Don't be such a pussy. It was a joke man, lighten up." But Blaine wasn't listening. He stalked back the way they had come. "Blaine!" Adam called after him. "Come on, I'm sorry!" But Blaine was beyond the point of no return and he continued to trek back towards the road where they had parked their car. _

_Blaine made it about five minutes before a scream ripped through the air. He froze, unsure what to do. He listened for any more, but nothing came. He debated whether to turn around or head for the car. It was probably Adam messing with him again, trying to get him to come back. But even as the thought entered his mind, another scream rang out, this time more painful and guttural, but it was cut off sharply. Blaine knew he couldn't ignore that. Adam was good, but not that good. _

_Racing back through the trees and mud, he made his way towards the spot where he had left Adam. Branches snatched his clothes and he cursed them for trying to hold him back. When he reached the spot, his eyes frantically searched for any sign of his brother. He found none. "Adam?" he called out warily, knowing it probably wasn't a good idea to yell out if there really was something out there. "Adam, it's not funny." He tried to sound mad, but it didn't work. "Adam!" he screamed louder, but there was still no answer, only the soft rustling of the trees. _

_Then, something caught his eye. He made his way towards the object that was shimmering in the moonlight. He bent slowly, hands reaching out with care. Mud covered and broken, Blaine knew immediately what it was. It was Adam's camera. This was no joke. It gave him the motive he needed to run back to their car and call for help. _

Blaine's eyes were distant and watering as he finished the story. Dean and Sam sat quietly, knowing that Blaine was gathering himself back together. It must have been hard to go through that, and even harder to talk about it. Sam didn't want to think about how he'd feel telling one similar to that. The thought alone nearly sent him into a panic.

"I'm sorry about your brother," Sam said. Blaine reached up and wiped a tear that had slipped from his eye. He turned to look at them, trying his best to smile his thanks, but failing miserably.

"I don't normally cry," Blaine said, trying to sound stronger.

"It's okay," Sam assured him.

"Where'd they find him?" Dean asked. Sam noticed that his brother's voice had lowered, grown softer, gentler. He'd tease Dean about it later. Macho tough guy had a soft side.

Blaine took in a breath and looked at the bed. "Right here," he answered.

Sam frowned. "In the bed?" he asked.

Nodding, Blaine reached out and stroked the bed as though it were something he cared about dearly. "I spent most of the day looking for him, driving to hospitals, looking up and down the road. The police had the department of wildlife out looking for him too. They said it was probably a gator," Blaine gave a harsh laugh at that. Dean stiffened. "One of the cops told me to come back and clean up. So I did and I found him lying right there." Blaine's face crumpled again and this time he didn't bother to wipe away the tears. "He looked so beat up. No fucking gator did that. It was that fucking ghost, bringing him back here to show off his work." Blaine's hand went to his arms. "He had scratches everywhere. Deep. And…" Blaine broke into a sob but quickly collected himself. "And his head was split open in the back. They say that's what killed him."

Sam looked over at Dean, wondering if his brother was thinking the same thing he was. By the concentrated look on Dean's face, he knew that he was. They were dealing with a ghost. Scratches were most common with angry spirits.

"I should have never left him alone," Blaine whispered.

"Hey," Sam said, shaking his head as Blaine looked over at him, eyes full of tears. "You can't blame yourself."

Blaine shook his head back. "If I would have stayed with him, or even if I would have ran back after the first scream. I could have…could have…"

"Gotten yourself killed," Dean interrupted, drawing both Blaine and Sam's attention to him. Sam gave him an incredulous look, telling Dean to be careful of what he said. But his brother wasn't looking at him. He was staring at Blaine, but his eyes were empty. "Whatever's out there wouldn't care if you were with him or not. There was nothing you could have done that would have saved your brother. Trust me, I know. And even though it hurts to lose your brother, you living may have just saved a lot more people from getting killed."

Blaine frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I'm a ghost hunter too," Dean said, but smiled as he said it. "But not in the same sense as you or Adam. You went out there just wanting to see one. I'm going out there to kill it." Sam looked at his brother then and couldn't help but feel like he was a little kid again. The thing about Dean was that he had such an air of confidence about him that if he said he could shrink the moon and wear it as an eye patch, you actually believed that he could. It had tricked Sam many times when Dean was playing practical jokes on him when they were kids. But it had also comforted him many times. When Dean said everything would be okay, you could pretty much guarantee that Dean would do everything in his power, and even some things out of his power, to make sure that they were.

"How?" Blaine asked, disbelief clear on his face.

"If it is a ghost," Dean said. "We'll find its bones and burn them."

"And if it's not a ghost?"

Dean shrugged, smiling warmly. "Then I have a big gun that sometimes does the trick."

Blaine let out a laugh at that. He swiped at his eyes again, forcing back the tears that were threatening to fall. He looked over back out the window. "I loved my brother," he said quietly. "I don't think I ever told him that."

Sam sighed and got out of the chair. He walked over to Blaine and put a hand on his shoulder, making him look up at Sam. "I'm sure he knew." Blaine smiled at him. Sam didn't want to turn and see Dean's face then. He was afraid of what he'd find there. So, instead, he pulled the map of the back woods that Conroy had given him out of his back pocket and handed it to Blaine. "Can you show us exactly where you were?"

After a few minutes, Blaine had their entire hike mapped out for Sam. It wasn't a very long hike, but Sam knew it must have been hell to walk through with all the mud. He thanked Blaine and turned to see if Dean was ready to go. Dean, however, was not. "Blaine, do you have the videotape your brother was shooting?"

Blaine frowned but then got up and walked over to the desk. He opened a drawer and pulled out the broken video recorder. "I'm not sure if its in one piece. But you can mess around with it if you want. Just," Blaine rubbed his arm, nervously. "If you do get it to work and you find something…just let me know, okay?"

"Sure thing," Dean nodded, smiling as he turned to Sam. "Ready to go, sweet cheeks?"

Sam nodded and Dean gave one last thanks towards Blaine before heading out. Sam nodded his thanks as well and went to follow his brother, but Blaine grabbed his arm. Sam was shocked to find his grip so strong. He turned to see that Blaine was following Dean's form as he went down the stairs. "Take good care of your brother."

"I will," Sam promised, both to Blaine and to himself.

Sam headed out after Dean and found him waiting by the car, already fidgeting with the camera. "Do you think it'll have anything useful?"

Dean shrugged. "I'd cream myself if it showed a manifestation." Sam closed his eyes at the crude visual. "But I'm just hoping for some orb action to confirm the ghost theory."

Sam was thoughtful for a second. "Dean," he said.

Dean, who was still enthralled with trying to get the tape out, didn't look up but answered with a quick, "Yeah?"

"You know what Conroy said about this thing taking out the scum of the town? The real, hurtful people in town?" Dean looked up at that and nodded. "I don't think Adam Beaumont fits into that category. From what Blaine said, he didn't sound like that type of guy."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I was thinking about that too," he admitted but didn't elaborate. "You want to go talk to the Westridge family while I fiddle with this?"

Sam couldn't help it. "Did you just say fiddle?"

Dean looked mortified, like a deer caught in headlights. He looked at Sam as though they had just discovered the world was going to end. Sam couldn't help himself as he started laughing at the look on Dean's face. "Oh god," Dean said pitifully. "I'm turning old." He quickly put his head down and pointed to his hair. "Sam, quick, do you see any gray or balding? Be honest now."

Sam shook his head. "No, Dean, I think you're safe."

Bringing his head back up, Dean put a hand to his chest. "That was close," he said, closing his eyes and letting out a sigh of relief. Sam patted him on the shoulder as he walked around to the passenger side of the car.

"Come on, gramps, I need a ride."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Luckily for Sam and Dean, the Westridge house was right in town. So as Dean headed towards the small electronics shop, basking in the luck that Shilling even had an electronics shop, Sam made his way over to the cozy looking home. There were flowers on the porch encircling a picture of a happy, smiling teenage girl. It had to be Ally Westridge. Sam was further confused by Conroy's statement that the ghost was taking out the scum of the town. How could Ally Westridge be scum? She was still a teenager.

Climbing the stairs, he prepared a story in his head. He was tempted to try a different approach and claim he was with the FBI, but he guessed that in a small town like this, word would spread about more ghost hunters being in town and their cover would be blown. So he decided that while they were in Shilling, he was Sam White, ghost hunter. That's how it would have to be.

Sam gathered himself, wondering how the family would react to him showing up and asking questions about Ally. He figured they wouldn't be too happy, but Mary Reynolds had let them in when they brought up the fact that any information could save their lives whey they were out there, so he thought that perhaps he'd try that technique. It wasn't one Sam and Dean used often, and Dean seemed to be better at it, having the accompanying look down and everything, but Sam was willing to give it a try. He couldn't believe that Dean actually won people over with that look.

Knocking on the door, he took a step back to wait for someone to answer. It took a moment, but finally the door opened to reveal a young man, not who Sam had been expecting. The man was big, Sam could see the muscles through the jacket he wore. He looked almost as though he had just gotten off a bus from boot camp, freshly cut military hair and a stern look to go with it. Sam licked his lips before saying, "Hello. Are Mr. or Mrs. Westridge home?"

"Who wants to know?" the burly man growled, his glare growing fiercer. Sam thought about turning around and going to get Dean as back up, but he knew he'd never hear the end of it from Dean.

He held out his hand. "Sam White." When the man didn't take it, Sam smiled grimly and rubbed his hand on his jeans. "I'm here with my brother and we were going to do a little ghost hunting tonight and I thought that I could talk to…"

"No," the man gruffed and began to close the door.

"Wait!" Sam said desperately. "Please, it will only take a minute."

The man eyed him angrily before stepping out onto the porch and closing the door behind him. He shoved a finger hard into Sam's chest. Sam held his ground, however, keeping his eyes on the man's face. "Look, shit head. This is just a game to all you fucking sci-fi geeks. You're a freak, man, getting hard on's when you find any trace of something out of the ordinary. Well let me tell you something you little fuck, my sister is dead. Dead! Do you even understand what that means? It means she's not coming back. This isn't a fucking game so piss off."

Sam held up his hands, showing him that he didn't mean any harm. "Look, we're not like the others who came through here. We know what you're going through and we know that it's not easy. But my brother and I are here to make sure that it doesn't kill again. This isn't a game to us either." Sam couldn't help the twinge of guilt as he said the last part. Was it all a game to them? They went from town to town, taking out whatever they came across and then moving on. Did they forget that people were dying? Was there any remorse when someone died that could have been saved? Sam wasn't sure that there was a straight answer. Yeah, they felt for and cared for the people they came across, but sometimes, though he didn't like to admit it, it did feel like a game. A game they were playing against their father as he lead them all over the country. He wondered if this whole thing was a game to John Winchester. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't know why his father was sending them off, or why he didn't want to talk to them.

The man was watching him. His face was angry and Sam was sure that pretty soon he'd pop a vessel somewhere in that thick neck of his. He didn't know what else to say to make this kid believe he wasn't here to upset them. But Sam didn't have to think of anything as the door opened and a woman appeared. "Tim? What's going on? I heard shouting." The woman looked over at him.

"Go back inside, Ma," Tim, the burly man, told her. "It's just one of them damn ghost hunters."

Mrs. Westridge looked over at Sam, her eyes widening. She looked as though she was about to tell him off, or break down crying, Sam couldn't tell. But he didn't want either to happen and he could feel this situation slowly getting out of hand. He decided to call an end to the hostilities.

"Mrs. Westridge, I know you've suffered a great loss and talking to a stranger about it is the last thing you want to do." Mrs. Westridge's eyes started watering and Tim took a step forward. Sam hurried to say what he needed to say. "But this thing, it's going to keep killing unless someone goes out there and stops it. My brother and I can do that. But we need some more information to go on."

Tim had had enough. He shoved Sam roughly in the chest, sending him back down the steps. Sam almost tripped, but caught himself on the concrete path leading up to the porch. "Just get out of here before I call the cops," Tim growled, his teeth clenched.

Sam was about to sigh in defeat when Mrs. Westridge put a hand on her son's shoulder. "Timmy, wait." Tim turned to look at his mother, eyes wide with the disbelief that she was actually going to talk to Sam. "Young man," she started, looking hard at Sam. "I don't believe in ghosts. But whatever killed my Ally, it was something monstrous. It's not something you want to be toying with."

"Ma'am," Sam tried to sound as respectful as possible. "No offense, but whether you help us or not, my brother and I are going to go after this thing. It would help us a lot if we knew more about what happened."

Mrs. Westridge seemed to contemplate it for a moment. Sam thought for sure she'd turn him away, she was looking at him with such disgust. Tim had crossed his arms over his chest and it reminded Sam of a few bouncers that had not too gently escorted Dean out of bars when he'd been caught hustling pool. The mental image made him wary.

Finally, Mrs. Westridge turned around and headed into the house. Sam wasn't sure what that meant, but she called back to him, "Do you take sugar in your coffee?"

Sam gave out a long sigh of relief and watched as Tim gave him a snarl before following his mother inside. Sam climbed the stairs on shaky legs and called to Mrs. Westridge, "Black is fine."

Dean was frustrated. He'd been near ecstatic when he'd found that there was an electronics shop in town, but now, as he sat in the backroom with one of the store clerks, he'd found his mood slowly deteriorating. Dean had handed the job of dismantling the video recorder and extracting, hopefully, the tape over to the employee. He'd been leery at first. The clerk didn't look to be older than 18. But he'd told Dean that he knew how to do it.

What seemed like ages later, Dean was still sitting opposite the clerk at the table, watching as the kid took it apart, slowly, precisely, ever so carefully. He wanted to reach across the table and smash the thing open himself, but he managed to hold himself back, reminding himself that they needed this tape. Dean hoped Sammy was having better luck than he was with the family.

Finally, the tape recorder seemed to magically pop open, startling both Dean and the employee, who looked up at him and grinned. "There you go." Dean clucked his tongue in appreciation before reaching over and taking the tape out. "Looks like it's in one piece too. Lucky. How'd this thing get so beat up anyway?"

"Bad fight," Dean gave absently, turning the tape over in his hands. "Things fly around when people fight."

The clerk looked at him suspiciously before saying, "This has something to do with that ghost, doesn't it?"

Dean looked up at him, wondering how the hell he could have gone his entire life trying to convince people ghosts were real only to come to Shilling where not a single person didn't think anything but. He thought loosely of making up a story, but decided he didn't have time to do so. "Yeah," he said and looked around the room. "You got a place I can watch this?"

"Sure!" the kid looked happy to help. He stood quickly and pulled a television on a stand with wheels closer to the table. He quickly took the tape from Dean and put it into the VCR. "Okay, you'll love this," his excitement made Dean quirk an eyebrow. "This is one of those fancy pieces of equipment detectives use to see if tapes have been tampered with. Use this to slow it down and speed it up." He pointed to a knob. "And this can zoom in."

"Thanks, man," Dean nodded, coming around to play the tape.

"So," the clerk sounded nervous. "I have a theory about the killings."

Dean knew he should be watching the tape, but the kid's confession had peeked his interest. He turned and eyed him. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," the kid said, looking suddenly smug. "I think it's a swamp creature." Dean looked at him skeptically. "You know, dragging people off into the swamp and scratching them all up. Blood thirsty." The kid's eyes were so wide and sure that Dean couldn't help himself.

"Swamp creatures don't leave bodies," he said matter-of-factly. "Just bones." Dean watched as the kid's eyes widened. He looked shocked and couldn't say anything. So Dean pointed to the television. "You mind giving us some privacy? I've got a date."

"Oh," the kid nodded, still looking shocked. "Sure, top secret, yeah?" He walked towards the front of the store, looking confused as ever. "Yell if you need something."

Dean shook his head and smiled. Kids these days. He pressed play on the VCR and was instantly greeted with a close up of Blaine Beaumont's face, telling his brother to get the fucking camera away from him. The bothers bickered for a while. Dean reached up and started to speed the tape up. It was pretty boring, just a bunch of trees and mud. He slowed it down once it got to the twenty five minute mark. That's about how far out the Beaumont brothers had been.

Listening to the brothers' quarrel, he watched as Adam lowered the camera and called out for Blaine to come back. For a while, it just pointed towards the ground, getting a crooked view of the trees and mud. But finally, it rose again and Adam let out a few choice cuss words. He heard the older brother sigh and then say to the camera, "Blaine, you weak ass. You owe me for wasting all this film." Then the camera was moving in the direction of where Blaine had stormed off.

After about five minutes of listening to Adam huff and puff and curse his brother, the camera suddenly stopped moving. Adam had frozen. Dean leaned a little closer, trying to see what had made Adam stop so suddenly. He heard the man's breath come quicker, faster. Then he called out quietly for Blaine. Dean tried not to feel sorry for him. He couldn't let his emotions get in the way with this one. And he was almost feeling reluctant to show Blaine what he'd found. His brother had been chasing after him. Dean wasn't sure how that would make the younger man feel.

Suddenly, the camera whirled. Dean didn't see anything other than the trees. It whirled again and this time Dean leaned forward more when he finally saw what he was looking for. To the corner of the screen, a small white orb was bouncing in and out of the shot. "Gotcha, you son of a bitch," Dean whispered. But right when Dean was sure he'd be able to see more of the orb, the camera dropped to Adam's side and all sight of it was gone. "No," Dean said. "Come on Adam, focus on it again." He urged the man.

Adam was swearing again, louder this time. Then, the whole camera shook and fell to the ground. Dean saw that Adam had fallen on his ass. He could only see part of Adam's legs and chest. His arm was held out in front of him. He let out a scream suddenly and Dean leaned back. Adam struggled backwards and soon he was out of the picture. Dean held his breath, hoping beyond hope that something would come into the screen. The screen flashed white and suddenly Adam was screaming again. When the screen returned to normal, there was nothing there. Dean sighed and leaned back. The tape ran out two minutes later, not giving Dean anything.

At least now he knew they were dealing with a ghost. The orb proved that. But the white flash, Dean hadn't a clue what that meant. He'd have to check with his Dad's journal. Maybe he'd find something about ghost and technology there. Though he'd never heard of a ghost overexposing film in a video camera before.

Dean's thoughts were put aside when he suddenly realized that he could see his breath. He frowned. It hadn't been cold in there before… Dean tensed. He tuned his senses to the room, trying not to let whatever was in the room with him know that he knew it was there. His hand slowly made its way to his side, where he had a knife strapped to his belt. He cursed himself for not bringing his gun loaded with rock salt, or at least a bag of table salt. He had nothing to protect himself with against a ghost.

Knowing that he'd have to do something, he grasped the hilt of his knife and took a deep breath before spinning sharply around, knife withdrawn. Nothing was there. He looked from side to side, wondering if he'd scared it off.

Suddenly, a closet door behind him closed and Dean jumped, nearly knocking over the chair. He whirled towards it. The door was rattling a bit. It was inside. He bit his lip. He knew that the smart thing to do would be to run outside and get something to fight it with, something that would work. But Dean Winchester was not one to do the smart things. That was Sam's role. He couldn't ignore the stubborn part of him that knew he should take this opportunity that had been given to him. Just try to get a look at the ghost, to know what they were dealing with. Then run.

Creeping slowly towards the closet, he clenched and unclenched his fist as he reached for the handle. His hand was shaking. _Get a hold of yourself, Dean,_ he told himself. Taking a deep breath, he reached out and grasped the door handle. "Here, ghostie, ghostie, ghostie," Dean cooed and pulled the closet door open. Again, he was greeted with nothing. He let out his breath and felt his shoulders relax. "Christ," he whispered and turned.

Dean was pushed harshly from behind before he could manage to turn around fully. He caught a glimpse of who had pushed him and saw the white glow of the manifestation, but he was unable to make out any distinguishing features before the closet door slammed closed. Dean fell hard against the back wall, crashing into whatever discarded electronics had been stored there, before he fell to the ground. He sat there for a moment, gauging whether or not the attack was over. After a bit, he decided it was. He picked himself up slowly from the ground and sighed. It was pitch black inside the closet. He felt in front of him with his hands and when he felt the door, he tried to find a knob.

There wasn't one.

Pushing back a swell of panic in his chest, he pushed hard on the door. When that didn't work, he slammed his shoulder into it. All that managed to do was make his shoulder hurt. "Fuck," Dean spat. He suddenly felt claustrophobic. He hated the dark. Well, it was more that he hated what dwelled in the dark. "Dean, you're an idiot," he said out loud. He started pounding on the door, hoping the store clerk would hear him.

After a few minutes, Dean was ready to give up. His nerves were on end, panic had begun to swell in his chest. His mind was playing tricks on him, telling him that he'd be locked in there forever. But as he pulled his hand back to pound on the door one more time, it suddenly swung open and Dean, who had been leaning on it, fell out and into the arms of the store clerk.

"Whoa," the clerk said as Dean gathered himself and stood. He squinted against the light and brushed the dust off himself. "How'd you get locked in there?"

Dean shook his head, not ready to explain the ways of ghosts to this kid. He was frazzled. He hated to admit it, but he was. He knew it hadn't been a deadly situation, but still, it had stirred up a fear Dean had thought he'd gotten over when he was a child. "I fucking hate ghosts," he whispered as he pushed past the clerk, who was standing in shock, looking at the door. Dean walked clear out of the store and practically speed walked to his car, gathering his wits again at the sight of his baby, and his weapons.

Sam had been talking with the Westridges for a good half an hour. Mrs. Westridge, Emily, had actually warmed up to him nicely. Tim had settled down and had even thrown a few things into the conversation. Sam had learned a lot about Ally Westridge, probably more than he needed to know, but the family seemed ready to talk about it and he wasn't going to be the one to stop them. She'd been a varsity cheerleader, captain to be exact. She was beautiful and had won a nomination for prom queen. She was in the church choir and had just recently broken up with her boyfriend of three years after he moved across the country. She'd taken it hard. There was nothing about Ally that Sam would consider a reason for a ghost to single her out if it was looking for mean, hurtful people.

"Mrs. Westridge, did Ally have any enemies?" Sam asked at last. "Anyone who just didn't get along with her?"

Emily thought for a minute before shaking her head. "No, no I don't think so. She was a nice girl. She was friends with just about everyone in her school." Emily paused before looking over at Tim, who looked at his mother questioningly. "But you know, now that you mention it, there was one person she didn't particularly get along with."

"Who?" Sam encouraged.

"Carl Hannigan," she answered. Sam found that interesting. He'd been the first victim in all of these killings.

"Do you know why they didn't get along?" Sam asked.

Emily shook her head. "No, Carl just didn't get along with anybody."

Tim cleared his throat and leaned forward. "Mr. Hannigan was a pretty pissy guy." Emily frowned at Tim's words, but he didn't seem to be bothered by it. "His house is on the way home from the high school. Sometimes Ally would walk home and she'd pass his house a lot. You know, I don't really know what happened, but one time she came home and was just pissed off at him for some reason. She wouldn't say why, but after that, every time they saw each other it was like a stand off."

"I scolded her for saying so," Emily began. "But when Carl died, she'd said good riddance. It wasn't like her to say things like that."

Sam nodded. "Do you know where Ally was the night she disappeared?"

The Westridges shook their heads. But Tim said, "Ally liked to jog. But she has a pretty long jogging path."

Sam thought for a moment and then decided to chance a guess. "Did that path go by the woods about four miles up on Forest Grove road?"

Tim nodded. "Yeah." Then he frowned and shook his head. "But she hadn't gone by it recently."

"Why not?" Sam asked.

"That's where they found Carl's body," Emily put in.

"When she left to go jogging that night, did she say where she was going to go?" Sam asked, putting the pieces together.

Tim shook his head. "No, but she did say she would be a little longer than usual." He paused and suddenly looked sad. "That's why we didn't call the police right away. She said she was going to go pay respects to someone." Tim's eyes suddenly widened and he looked hard at Sam. "Do you think she meant Carl?"

Sam nodded. "Adam Beaumont died out near those woods. Carl Hannigan's body was found there. I think that's the spot where these killings are happening." He paused for a moment. "I'm sorry to ask this, but where did you find Ally's body?"

Emily took a breath. "Right in her bed." She put a hand to her eyes. "Looking beautiful as ever." Tim ducked his head.

"Can you tell me anything about the other victims?"

Emily shrugged, gathering herself again. "Pete Flannery was a nice man. He lost his wife a few years ago to cancer. He started shutting himself off to the world recently. He went hunting a lot."

Tim cut in then. "We didn't know that Jensen guy, he was from out of town. But me and Ally saw him out at the diner once. He was loud, a real smart mouth."

"What about Jason Meyers?" Sam asked.

Tim looked at his mother. Emily sighed and smiled sweetly, though her eyes were sad. "We didn't know much about him. You should talk to Sarah. She was his girlfriend. She works up at the gas station."

Sam nodded and stood up. "I think that's about it," he announced. Emily and Tim rose. "Thank you. You've helped a lot."

Tim took Sam's hand. "You'll find the guy that's doing this, right?" Tim asked, shaking Sam's hand.

"We'll try."

"Be careful out there," Emily looked ready to cry and Sam nodded at her before turning and heading out the door. He was halfway down his steps when his phone rang. He was surprised to see it was Dean.

"Yeah?" he said into the phone.

"You get anything useful from the Westridges?" Dean asked. Sam frowned. His voice sounded off, almost out of breath.

"A bit," Sam answered and then said, "Are you okay? You sound winded."

"I'm fine, Mom," Dean joked, but the humor wasn't in his voice. There was silence on the other end for a moment and Sam's worry grew a bit. When Dean answered after a moment, it did nothing to calm Sam's worry over his brother.

"I think I had a run in with our ghost."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Sam had to keep reminding himself that Dean said he was fine. But with Dean, fine could mean anything. He'd said he was fine after the whole Wendigo ordeal, but Sam had seen the bruising on his brother's stomach. He'd watched him patch himself up in the bathroom, tending to scratches. He'd seen the way his brother would grab his side for days after the incident. Fine, in Dean's world, meant absolutely jack shit.

Turning the corner, he spotted the object of his concern leaning against the Impala. He tried not to rush as he crossed the road to get to him. _At least he's standing_, Sam thought to himself. Dean spotted him and crossed his arms over his chest, a smirk on his face. Sam would ignore whatever smart ass remark Dean was ready to make until he was absolutely sure his brother wasn't hiding any serious injuries. Sam scanned Dean's body quickly, satisfied when he didn't find any gushing wounds or broken bones.

"Checking me out again, Sammy?" Dean asked. Sam looked up, but he ignored the comment. Dean seemed to be fine physically, but there was something in Dean's eyes. A lingering emotion that Sam couldn't place before it was gone from Dean's eyes altogether.

"You sure you're okay?" Sam asked, frowning as he watched Dean's face for any sign that his brother was lying to him. Dean nodded and Sam didn't pick up on much. "What happened?" Sam asked, finally able to get over the fact that his brother had been attacked. If Dean was hurt, he was hiding it well, extremely well.

Dean shrugged and looked in the direction of the electronics store. "Caspar locked me in a closet." He'd said it as if it was nothing. Sam frowned. "Don't think he was too happy starring in his own home movie." Dean tossed the video tape at Sam, who caught it awkwardly against his chest. He looked down at it momentarily before looking back at Dean.

"You saw it?" he asked.

Dean nodded. "Just orbs. But at least we know it's a ghost." Dean looked away, shoving his hands into his pockets. Sam watched him closely. There was something Dean wasn't telling him. He looked…shaken. But Sam wouldn't push it. If Dean wanted to talk about it, he would. Right now, they had a job to do.

"We know for sure that its killing in those woods," Sam said. Dean looked at him, asking him how he knew without even opening his mouth. "Carl Hannigan's body was found out there. And it was on Ally Westridge's jogging trail."

Dean seemed to think for a moment. "How long was it between Carl Hannigan's death and Jason Meyers?"

"About four days," Sam said, doing the math in his head. "Why?" Dean was looking at him with an almost quizzical look. "You think Carl Hannigan is our ghost?"

"Maybe," Dean gave honestly. "Four days is a quick manifestation period, though." Dean shook his head harshly. "Nah, it doesn't feel right. But hell, what was he even doing out there? And why did this thing start killing now?"

Sam shrugged. "Maybe it was waiting for the right victim?"

The brothers were thoughtful for a moment before Dean slowly broke into a grin. Sam watched it with trepidation. He hated the slow grins. It always meant trouble, especially from Dean. His brother's eyes were twinkling with something, excitement maybe. "Sammy, you up for a little breaking and entering?"

After a little searching, Sam and Dean managed to find Carl Hannigan's home. It was isolated on the opposite side of town from where the killings were taking place. Dean pulled the car up and looked out his window towards the now abandoned and boarded up house. It was shabby, old, and falling apart, partially hidden by trees. The gravel driveway was overgrown with weeds and saplings. One thin piece of police tape was across the driveway, but one side of it had come undone and it wouldn't have kept anyone out. It looked creepy enough, but Sam knew not to judge a book by its cover.

Dean got the shotguns out of the trunk and threw one at Sam. Sam looked at him quizzically. "You really think we'll need these in there?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. "Always good to be careful, Sammy."

Sam raised an eyebrow at that. "I think that ghost messed with your head," Sam said. Dean gave him a glare as he strapped a duffle bag over his shoulder. "You're never careful."

A snort from Dean told Sam that his brother hadn't taken offense. Of that, he was glad. Maybe his brother was all right after all. "I'm careful when I need to be," Dean answered. Then turned and looked at Sam, nodding his head towards the house. "Come on, young blood, let's go. I want to finish this one off by noon. Somewhere out there, there's a cheeseburger calling my name, ready to be devoured."

"You ever think of eating something where the main ingredient isn't grease?" Sam asked, hurrying a little to catch up with his brother. They walked up the gravel driveway and headed towards the back of the house, where their point of entry would be less conspicuous to anyone passing by. Though Sam highly doubted that anyone in town would care if someone broke into this house. He could only guess what kind of story a town like Shilling would come up with for Carl Hannigan's house. "You're starting to pack on the pounds."

Dean patted his stomach, but he was looking carefully at the boarded up window where he had decided they would enter. "It's all muscle, Sammy. This body is a temple."

Sam snorted. "A temple to what?"

"The gods of divine perfection," Dean said, though his concentration wasn't on the conversation. Dean felt the board that was blocking their way from entering the house. After testing its durability, he took a step backwards and kicked it in. The board immediately collapsed, creating just enough room for Dean and Sam to slip into the house. "After you," Dean said, holding his hand out.

Sam rolled his eyes but crawled through the opening anyway. The dust inside the house was remarkable and Sam had to cover his mouth to keep from coughing as it attacked his airways. He shone his flashlight around the room, noticing that there was a thin layer of dust on just about every piece of furniture in the room. Dean crawled in and added his flashlight beam to the inspection. "And you thought our motel was bad," Dean whispered, swiping some dust off the table with his finger.

"Let's just look around and get out of here," Sam said, frowning as he looked around the room.

"You having another one of your John Edward moment again?" Dean asked. Sam glared at him, which only made Dean grin and raise his eyebrows in encouragement.

"John Edward was a flashy con artist, Dean," Sam retorted. "And no, I just don't like this place."

Dean nodded. "Me neither." He pointed a finger towards the kitchen. "I'll take right, you take left?"

Sam nodded and headed towards the hallway to the left. It was dark, but Sam managed to find the living room. He shone his flashlight around and frowned. The living room looked as though it hadn't been touched in years. There were footprints on the floor, which were just barely visible as dust had begun to settle again into them. But, except for the dust, it was unbelievably clean. The far wall had a blue and purple striped wallpaper, while the other three walls were painted white. The cushions on the couch looked as though they'd never been sat on. The pillows were propped neatly, precisely. And other than a cloth doily on the coffee table, there were no decorations. Not a picture on the wall, not a plant, nothing. It was bare except for the necessary furniture. Sam highly doubted that Carl Hannigan had spent much time in this room, if any. The footprints were concentrated, as though he had walked in and walked out.

Walking over to the end table, he pulled open the drawer and waved his hand in front of his face as dust plumed out of it. He coughed slightly and his eyes watered a bit, but he rubbed them and looked back in the drawer. There was nothing inside except for dust and a mouse dropping or two. Sam frowned in frustration and closed the drawer, shining his flashlight around the room again. There wasn't any other place for Carl to hide things. Sam had hoped to find something, a newspaper or something.

Deciding he was done in this room, he started to leave but stopped suddenly as he looked once again at the footprints on the floor. He leaned down a bit and looked at one of them closer. They looked strange and at first Sam couldn't tell why. But after a bit, it finally hit him. They weren't a single set of footprints. Someone had walked over them many times, stepping almost exactly on the same spot. Except for a few times when Sam could spot the toe splitting in two, he probably wouldn't have noticed it. He followed the path they lead with his flashlight. The footsteps started in the hallway and went in a straight line towards the wall where they curved and headed back out towards the hallway again.

Getting up from where he was squatting on the ground, Sam looked at the wall. There was nothing to it really. The stripped wallpaper looked off against the white paint of the other three walls. Sam ran the beam of the flashlight up and down the wall, stopping at the bottom when he noticed something off about the trim. There were two lines cut into it, about three and a half feet apart, almost the size of a doorway.

Sam almost gasped out loud as he realized he was looking at a door. Who would have a hidden door in their living room? He was about to find out, he guessed.

Pushing on it a bit, he was disappointed when it didn't pop open. He looked around for a trigger maybe, like in all those mystery movies he and Dean had watched as kids, but there wasn't anything nearby. He pushed again, putting his foot against it, but it still wouldn't open. He bit his lip in frustration and then leaned against it, pushing it with his shoulder.

Sam was pushing so hard that when the door opened with a resounding crack, Sam didn't have time to catch himself before he fell forward. He was met with wooden stairs and could do nothing as the momentum sent him tumbling down the steps. It was a blur of motion and movement until he landed hard on his stomach on the concrete floor, smacking his chin with a sharp clank of his teeth.

Sam lay dazed for a moment. He started to assess the damage, knowing that he'd hurt in the morning, but he didn't think anything was broken or sprained, except maybe his pride. He started to pick himself up off the ground and heard Dean call his name from upstairs. Sam didn't answer him yet, still trying to collect himself. He got to his knees and started to brush himself off. He was covered in dust. He put a hand to his chin and when he pulled it away, there was a small amount of blood on his fingers. It wasn't a deep cut, but it smarted something fierce when he touched it.

"Sammy?" Dean sounded worried and Sam turned to look over his shoulder, up the steps, which he glared at hatefully.

"Dean!" Sam called to his brother, so he'd know where he was. Dean's form appeared in the doorway. Sam waved a hand at him before going back to brushing himself off. "Watch that first step," Sam said dryly.

"You okay?" Dean asked, coming down the stairs, squatting beside Sam, not giving him time to answer before he took Sam's jaw in his hand and tilted his head backwards, looking at the cut on Sam's chin.

"I'm fine," Sam said, yanking his head out of Dean's grasp. He wiped the blood away with the sleeve of his shirt before running his tongue over his teeth, checking to see if they were all safe and in tact. He didn't find anything wrong, to which he gave a prayer of thanks.

Dean stood, shaking his head. "You never were one for grace and style."

"Shut up," Sam spat, slowly getting to his feet. Yeah, he would definitely be sore in the morning. Dean reached to help him and Sam shrugged off his hand. He wasn't angry at Dean for wanting to help, he was more embarrassed that he had fallen down a flight of stairs. Why didn't things like that ever happen to Dean? But as soon as the thought entered his mind, Sam immediately dispelled it. He'd rather things like this happen to himself then to Dean. He didn't like seeing Dean hurt. He didn't like seeing anyone hurt, but especially Dean. It was probably something spawned from childhood. For years, when Sam was really little, Dean had told him that he was invincible, that nothing could hurt him. Sam had believed him. Sam had believed him until the day their Dad had carried an unconscious Dean through the halls of a hospital. He'd believed him until the day he saw his father's shirt stained in Dean's blood. Until the day he saw Dean laying in a hospital bed, eyes clamped shut in pain, with a hole in his side from some evil baddie that had caught his father unaware. He hadn't even been hunting. Sam had been four and he hadn't really understood what had happened, but he remembered that day as the day he found out that his brother wasn't invulnerable. Sam had never forgotten that.

But Sam's thoughts were quickly pushed aside as he looked at the far wall of the room he had so gracefully tumbled into. He reached for his flashlight, which had rolled up next to the stairs and picked it up, shining it at the wall. "Dean…" Sam said, calling his brother's attention to the wall. Dean turned and the brothers stood in a momentarily shocked silence, reading the words that had been written over and over again in black paint. It was one phrase, littering the walls.

_Forgive me Piggy._

Sam had seen some odd things in his life, but he was sure that this one was right up there with some of the oddest things he'd ever seen. The words were written everywhere, on every wall, on the ceiling, in different sizes and different styles. It looked like some had even been scratched into the wall. The floor was the only space of the room that didn't have the phrase written on it. There was a desk to the side with an open notebook and piles upon piles of loose leaf paper. Some bookcases lined the right wall, stocked full of notebooks and loose pieces of paper. There were candles on the floor near the walls and piles of wax where candles had burnt down.

"Okay," Dean said, nodding his head the way he did when he was trying to convince himself that things were okay. "This is some really weird psycho serial killer shit going on, but this is a good thing."

Sam, not taking his eyes off the wall, tilted sideways towards his brother so their heads were close. He was almost afraid to talk loudly, lest there be something still lurking in the creepy room. "How is this a good thing?" He asked.

"Well," Dean shone his flashlight on the desk. "This gives us something to work with." He nodded his head towards Sam. "We got a lot of reading ahead of us, little brother. And since you're the college boy, you get the bookcase."

Sam eyed the bookcase. "Dean, there's like a hundred notebooks there."

"Have fun," Dean said, heading towards the desk. Sam shot the back of his brother's head a glare, but headed towards the bookcase anyway. He sighed, not knowing where exactly to start. He pulled out a few of the loose papers and looked at them. _Forgive me Piggy_ was scribbled all over them. The hand writing looked frantic in some places and in others the writer had taken the time to draw out the letters and shade them and decorate them. All of the papers were the same, so Sam picked up one of the notebooks. He frowned and couldn't help but feel a little weirded out when he saw that the same phrase was written over and over again on every single page of the notebook. What got to Sam was the fact that it seemed to be organized with indents and punctuation and quotations marks and everything, as though someone had actually written something but only the one phrase had come out.

The lights in the room suddenly turned on and Sam jumped, spinning around, half expecting to find a ghost or a guy with a machete standing right behind him. But instead, Dean was looking sheepishly at him, grinning from his place next to the light switch. "Found the lights," he announced needlessly.

"Fucker," Sam whispered and turned back to the notebooks. He heard Dean whisper a name back, but didn't quite catch it, though he could guess a few derogatory names that Dean had come up with for him.

After two more notebooks, Sam sighed and shook his head. "Dean, in all of these, he just keeps writing the same thing over and over." Sam turned to look at his brother.

"Yeah, here too," Dean said, though he had taken a seat at the desk and was looking through the open notebook thoughtfully. "Looks like this is where he stopped," Dean said, pointed to the notebook. "It's kind of hard to read, like he had trouble writing it."

Sam looked at the number of notebooks on the bookshelves. "Dean, there must be years worth of these things here."

"I wonder who Piggy is." The words struck Sam by surprise. He turned and looked at his brother, who was running his fingers over the paper, looking at it as though it were something pretty. Dean's eyes were distant, as though he wasn't seeing what he was actually looking at. He looked to be somewhere else. Sam frowned at his brother's odd actions. 

"Dean?" Sam called softly. Dean seemed to snap out of it, blinking a bit before looking over at Sam.

"Yeah?" Dean asked, his eyes drifting around the room.

"You okay?" Sam asked, setting down the notebook.

Dean paused his gaze on the wall for a moment before turning back to frown at Sam. "Yeah," he said it as though Sam had said something crazy. "I mean, this guy must have been a real nutcase, right?"

Sam watched Dean get up out of the chair. He was acting weird and Sam suddenly found himself wondering if maybe they should leave. It didn't feel like there was anything evil in the room, though Sam didn't know how reliable his feelings could always be. Maybe something was messing with his brother's head. Dean made his way over to the bookcase and stood next to Sam, running his fingers along the bindings of the notebooks. Sam watched Dean's face. He was about to tell his brother that maybe they should get out of there when Dean spoke up. "Quit staring, Sam."

"You sure you're okay?" Sam asked, watching as his brother turned to face him, his eyes intense.

"Yeah, why?" Dean asked, his brow marred with a frown.

Sam shook his head. "Nothing," he paused. "It's just, you're acting kinda weird."

Dean scoffed, a smirk coming to his face. "Sammy, we're in the middle of some grade A serial killer shit right here." Dean looked at Sam as though that's all that needed to be said. But Sam shook his head, not really knowing what his brother was trying to say. "You aren't pumped?" Dean's voice sounded excited. "Think about it, Sammy, we could be hunting our very own Hannibal Lecter, or Norman Bates, though I'd prefer Hannibal."

Sam let out a sigh and couldn't keep the irritation out of his face as he shook his head. He turned and walked over to the desk, not wanting to be near his brother at the moment lest his urge to smack him overwhelmed him. "You're an idiot," Sam muttered as he reached the desk.

Dean turned and looked over his shoulder, "What? You'd prefer Leatherface?" Dean snorted. "Carl Hannigan, yeah, that's a good serial killer name."

Ignoring Dean wasn't making Sam's irritation go away. Though he was still slightly worried over Dean's actions with the notebook, he knew his brother was back to normal now…as normal as Dean Winchester got. "I don't think he was a serial killer, Dean."

"Let me have my fantasy, Sammy," Dean called.

"Delusional fantasy," Sam muttered. But something else had caught his interest. He reached into the drawer and pulled out the book he'd found, brushing the dust off of the cover. "Hey, Dean I think I found something." Dean came over to the desk and looked at what Sam had found. "Looks like a high school year book."

Sam opened the cover and started flipped through the papers. There were pictures of students and teachers and clubs and banquets. It looked as though it was pretty old.

"Class of '62," Dean read as he bent to look at the cover. Sam continued to flip the pages until something caught his eye. He laid the book down and looked at the picture. Dean pointed to one of the pictures, the one that had caught Sam's eye. "That's interesting."

Sam had to agree. In the picture sat five young students. They were all goofing around, smiling happily for the camera. They looked like a motley crew indeed. Below the picture were the names and Sam couldn't help but feel like they had struck gold. He read the names out loud. "Carl Hannigan, Peter Flannery, Matthew Westridge, Susan Meyers, and Hank Reynolds."

"Five outta six ain't bad," Dean muttered.

Sam nodded. "Matthew Westridge and Susan Meyers. How much you wanna bet they're related to Ally and Jason?" Sam shook his head. "I don't think this is just a coincidence."

Dean reached over Sam and grabbed the yearbook. "I don't think Carl will mind if we borrow this for a while," Dean said, stuffing it into his jacket. He looked down at Sam. "Let's go have a word with our lone survivor."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Sam had hoped that Hank Reynolds would be more cooperative with them if they showed him the yearbook they'd found. He had hoped that Hank would be able to tell them who Piggy was. He had hoped to get some answers. But all that hope was slowly draining away as Dean pulled the Impala up next to a squad car parked in front of the Reynolds' bed and breakfast. Mary Reynolds was talking with two police officers. She looked distraught, puffy eyed and tear stained. She was hugging herself and trying to wipe away the tears from her face with a tissue. Sam didn't like the look of this.

Getting out of the car, Sam and Dean walked towards the small crowd that was starting to gather. Lucille, the waitress from the diner, was standing back, watching the scene. Dean nudged Sam and then headed in her direction. Sam blew out a breath, hoping this confrontation with the tough waitress would be better than their last meeting.

"Have the day off today?" Dean asked, sliding in beside Lucille. Sam went to stand next to his brother, but kept his eyes on Mary Reynolds. He had a feeling that whatever information they had planned on getting from the Reynolds' had just gone out the window.

Lucille turned questioningly towards Dean, but seemed to recognize him immediately. She scoffed and looked back towards the cops. "Still alive, I see," she said casually. "That's longer than I would have expected."

Dean let out a sarcastic laugh. "You're breaking my heart, here." He feigned injury, though the smile was still wide on his face. Lucille even cracked a bit of a smile at his antics, but didn't turn to look at him again. Dean nodded his head towards Mrs. Reynolds. "You know what's going on?"

Lucille looked at him, pretending to look angry, but there was a small amount of amusement in her eyes. "Oh, so now you're using me for the scoop on the town? And here I thought all you wanted was my body."

Sam rolled his eyes. This could go on all day. Dean had no problem flirting for hours on end and Sam didn't think Lucille would either. His brother, as much as a Casanova as he thought he was, had never really had luck with the ladies. Sure, there were a few who had begun to flirt back, and even a couple who had shown interest in him. But with the life Dean lead, it was hard to get any sort of a relationship started. Maybe it wasn't Dean's lack of luck for the ladies, but rather his lack of luck for the ability to form relationships. It wasn't something Sam and Dean talked about much. Sam had asked him if he'd ever had a girlfriend when they were both teenagers, but Dean had told him that he'd come to terms with the fact that he knew he'd never have time for girlfriends, let alone a wife or a family. It was sad, and perhaps that had been another adding factor to why Sam had left for college.

"I'm a good multi-tasker," Dean grinned and Lucille shook her head, though she let out a chuckle. Sam urged his brother mentally to get to the point, ready to step in if Dean didn't. But, Dean didn't need the encouragement. He cleared his throat and nodded towards Mary Reynolds again. "So, what happened?"

Lucille sighed. "Hank's missing again," she said.

"Again?" Sam spoke up, leaning forward to look around Dean at Lucille. The waitress seemed to notice him for the first time, eyeing him like he had popped out of nowhere.

"Yeah," she said almost snappily. Sam frowned at her. He didn't like being snapped at. But Lucille paid him no attention. "He wanders off sometimes. With his Alzheimer's and everything. Last time it took them nine hours to find him. He was walking up the highway, saying he was going to go visit his mother." Lucile snorted. "She's been dead for forty years."

"Mary looks upset," Dean said. Sam thought that was the understatement of the year. Mary was hugging herself, openly weeping and shaking her head. The police weren't getting much out of her and one had gone off to tell some other officers where to look. The officer that stood near her was holding her arm as if she would fall if he let her go.

Lucille nodded. "With all the killings going on, I guess she has every right to be upset."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. Sam and Dean glanced at each other, not wanting to say it out loud, but they both knew what the other one was thinking. Hank Reynolds was going to be added to the victims list unless they could get out there and kill this ghost right now. Though Sam didn't know how they'd find Hank once the ghost was gone. One could only hope that the answer would show itself to them before another body was found.

Dean sighed and stepped under the police tape. Sam looked at Lucille, who didn't look shocked at all over what his brother had just done. Instead, she looked at Sam, expecting him to follow. Sam snorted and followed his brother.

The officer holding Mary held up a hand as Dean approached. "Sir, you can't be back here right now," he said.

Mary looked up and as she spotted Sam and Dean, she patted the officer on the arm. "No, it's okay," she said between sobs. "They're going to find my Hank," she said, looking directly into Sam's eyes. He tried to look as assuring as possible as he nodded. Truth of the matter was, Sam thought Hank was already dead. But he'd never tell Mary that. Let the woman have her hope. The officer eyed them warily, but finally nodded and Mary walked over to them, patting each of them on the arms, smiling and nodding. "You boys will find my Hank, won't you?"

"Hopefully," Dean said, his voice soft. Sam could hear the hesitation in his brother's voice. Dean thought it was a lost cause too. "But we need to know what happened."

"I don't know," Mary said, running a hand over her face. "I went inside to make sandwiches for lunch. Hank usually eats turkey on Thursdays, but I thought that I'd surprise him and give it to him today." She was babbling, but Sam thought she had the right to. "And when I came out he was gone. I just went in for five minutes." Her voice suddenly broke and she shook her head violently. "It was that ghost, I know it was. She's got him."

Dean's eyes widened a little at that and Sam knew he had caught it too. "She?" he asked, trying to get Mary to look him in the eye. "Mary, she who?"

Mary looked up at him. "What?" she asked, as though she didn't know what Dean was talking about.

"You said i _she's got him /i _. She who?" Mary just looked at him blankly.

Sam took a step forward. "Mary, do you know who the spirit is?" Mary shook her head and Sam wanted to reach out and shake some sense into her.

"No," Mary said, trying to get a hold of her crying. "No, I…I just know that thing has him." She grabbed onto Dean's jacket with both her hands, pulling him closer. Dean put his hands on her shoulders, obviously surprised at the older woman's strength. "Please just find my Hank."

"We will," Dean said, trying to pry her fingers off his jacket. Sam studied Mary's face. Maybe it had been a slip up? She was a distraught wife who had possibly lost her husband, it was a common thing to slip up words when you were that emotional. But, Sam had trouble convincing himself of that. Dean turned to Sam, clapping him on the stomach before turning to leave. "Come on," he said, heading back towards their car.

Sam frowned at his brother. It wasn't like Dean to just leave like that. But even as Sam thought it, Dean turned back around and looked thoughtful for a moment. "Mrs. Reynolds?" he called out. Mary looked at him. Dean ran a hand over his mouth as though he were searching his mind for the right question to ask. It was a tactic Dean liked to use often and Sam immediately knew what his brother was up to. The sneak attack. "Does the name Piggy mean anything to you?"

Mary Reynolds looked like the world had just fallen apart around her. And Sam knew it wasn't all because her husband was missing. She stared at Dean for a moment, eyes wide, mouth half open. After a moment, she shook herself out of it and without missing a beat, she spurted, "No. No, I don't know a Piggy." She was a horrible liar, but the way she had closed in on herself and stopped crying, Sam knew they wouldn't get anything else out of her, especially if they kept pressing.

Sam looked at Dean and recognized the look in his eyes. He was frustrated. But Dean kept his cool and nodded calmly at Mrs. Reynolds before turning and heading towards the Impala. Sam was right on his heels, looking back over his shoulder at Mrs. Reynolds, who had taken a seat on the sidewalk, her eyes still distant, lost in a memory.

When they were out of earshot, Sam whipped his head back towards Dean and said, "She knows something."

Dean nodded in agreement, but didn't say anything. He opened the door to the Impala and climbed in. Sam stood outside the car and Dean looked up at him, his window rolled down. "Get in," he demanded.

Sam just stared at his brother. "Dean, you can't be serious," he said, wondering what the hell his brother was thinking. "She knows something. We need to find out what's going on."

Dean started up the car, ignoring Sam's comment. He looked back up at him and Sam saw that determined look creep into his brother's eyes. He hated that look sometimes. "Sam, get in. She's not going to tell us anything while her husband's still missing. And I don't know about you, but I'd like to at least try to find him alive."

Sam couldn't believe what he was hearing. He felt like reaching out and smacking his brother. "But we have no idea what we're up against out there."

"Yeah we do," Dean said, the irritation evident in his voice. "An angry spirit, that's all we need to know. Now are you going to get in the damn car or am I going out there by myself?" Dean looked up at him, his face hard. Sam stared back at him defiantly. A million thoughts were racing through his head. He could only put up with Dean's impulsiveness for so long. This was the side of Dean that he absolutely hated.

"Dean, let's at least ask around a little more," Sam pleaded, his voice too angry to sound whiney. "Someone has to recognize the name Piggy, it's not like it's a common name or anything."

Dean sighed and Sam could practically see him counting to ten in his head. Dean's jaw was set tight and he knew that if he had been standing next to Sam, he'd be fighting the temptation to punch him. He was probably still fighting it, sitting down in the car. "Sam, it wasn't Mary Reynolds who was in that picture," Dean said slowly, trying to keep his anger in check. "If this spirit is killing the people who were in that picture, Hank Reynolds is the last one. We can still save him." The last sentence was said almost pleadingly and Sam stared hard at the side of his brother's face. Dean's eyes were focused on the steering wheel, begging Sam not to implore into the emotion behind them.

Sam took a deep breath, clenching his fists tight before he walked around to the other side of the car and climbed in. He slammed the door shut and bit the side of his lip. Dean started driving without another word. Both of the brothers were brooding, Sam knew it, but he couldn't help but feel angry. It was just like Dean to jump into something like this. Since when did he care more about Hank Reynolds than their own safety? But as Sam thought it, he realized he already knew the answer. With Dean, it wasn't a matter of their safety. Well, it wasn't a matter of his safety. Dean's issue with protecting his brother was a whole different can of worms. They were more than qualified to go up against this angry spirit, Sam knew that. But Hank Reynolds was just an old man with a failing memory. He was innocent, just like Jess had been and just like their Mom had been. Sam knew that's what was behind Dean's reasoning. No one had been there to save their Mom. But they were here and if they didn't try to save this man, it would make Dean's whole reasoning for the hunt seem like nothing.

As much as Sam hated jumping into things like this, he knew there was no stopping Dean when he got those thoughts into his head. Every person that died was just like their Mom to Dean. Just another person that Dean Winchester couldn't save. Dean had never said it, but Sam knew that's what he thought. He knew by the looks Dean got in his eyes when they found bodies instead of survivors. He wanted to smack his brother for thinking like that. He wanted to smack him and tell him that he wasn't superman, he didn't have to save everyone, he couldn't save everyone. But Sam didn't know how to make Dean see it. So he just got angry instead. Angry and broody, because that's what he did best. The Winchesters never were ones who talked about their emotions.

As they got closer to the woods where Adam Beaumont had disappeared, Sam decided that fighting before a hunt was never a good idea. He sighed, opting to be the bigger man in this situation, and that thought alone put him in a bit of a better mood. He looked over at Dean. "What's the plan?"

"The plan?" Dean asked, staring at the road ahead of them. "Go in there, lure it out, shoot its fucking head off and follow it back to wherever the hell it's taking its victims."

"What kind of a plan is that?" Sam asked, glaring at his brother.

Dean shot a wicked glance in his direction. "You got a better one?"

_ i Yeah, go and talk to everyone in town and find out who Piggy was and what happened to them /i ._ But Sam kept his mouth shut, knowing it would do nothing to help the situation. "No," he gave instead.

Dean nodded his head once and Sam let him have his victory for the moment. He looked out the window at the woods, wondering what they were going up against out there. Dean glanced over at him and Sam saw the look that was on his brother's face. Dean was worried. Sam looked away, not wanting to see that look. Because if he saw it, then he'd just feel sorry or get angrier. And right now, he just wanted to concentrate on what they were about to do.

But Dean wasn't going to let it go that easily. "Sammy, I need to know that you're with me," he whispered. Sam frowned. He hadn't expected that. He turned and looked at Dean, but his brother made a point of not looking back at him. "I got your back out there Sam, but I need to know you got mine."

It was a rare moment when Dean said things like this and Sam wasn't sure what to say back. Of course he had Dean's back. He'd always have Dean's back. How many times did he have to tell his brother that before he'd believe him? Had their relationship been screwed up that bad after the Roosevelt Asylum? Sam prayed that it wasn't.

"You know I do," Sam replied quietly. Dean gave a small nod of his head, taking a deep breath before he smiled. Sam already knew what he was thinking and couldn't help but smile too. "I think we just had one of your dreaded chick flick moments."

"Yeah, you sucked me into it," Dean grinned.

Sam scoffed. "You're the one who started it."

Dean shrugged. "Well, we'll have to weigh it out by shooting things. And maybe we should blow something up, just to be safe."

Sam laughed and Dean looked over at him with a satisfied smile on his face. Sam leaned forward, though, squinting as he spotted something at the side of the road, right where they were headed. As they got closer and he realized what it was, he smacked Dean's arm and said, "Looks like we got company."

Dean let out a small sound of annoyance as he pulled the Impala up behind the Oldsmobile parked at the side of the road. The figure sitting on the trunk looked over to them before hopping off and coming to greet them as they got out.

"Blaine," Sam said. "What are you doing here?"

"Take me with you," Blaine said bluntly, ignoring Sam's question. He looked first at Sam and then at Dean.

Shaking his head, Dean walked around to the trunk. "Look, man. We don't do the whole sidekick thing. So you should just head back into town. Help Mary out while they're looking for Hank." Dean was talking as he prepared the two shotguns and a few other accessories to take out with them.

"No," Blaine said, his voice strong but quavering slightly with emotion.

Dean poked his head around the car to look at Blaine. "What?" he asked sourly. Sam looked at Dean, surprised how much he had sounded like their father right then when Sam and Dean used to say something in defiance to him. Sam had hated that voice. But on Dean, it just made him look all the more powerful. Especially since Dean was talking to someone his own age. Sam had to hold back a smile.

"I said no," Blaine said slowly, staring Dean down. Sam had to give him credit. His brother could be a pretty scary guy when he wanted to be. Blaine wasn't even flinching. "I'm going with you."

"Like hell you are," Dean said, shaking his head and closing the trunk as they got the last of the supplies out. Sam shrugged a bag over his shoulder and held the shotgun down at the side of his leg. He looked over to Blaine and wondered how long the two of them could go at it.

"I won't get in the way," Blaine said, his face twitching with raw emotion. Sam felt bad for him.

Dean just looked frustrated. "Look, this isn't some slow ass ghost in a bed sheet," Dean pointed at the ground to punctuate his statement. It was also something their Dad used to do. "This thing is fast, its smart and its dangerous. You could get killed."

"I know," Blaine said, nodding. "But if it was you, wouldn't you want to go out there?"

Sam looked at his brother then, not knowing how Dean would react to a comment like that. Sam knew the answer of course. Dean would be out there in a heartbeat, hell bent on destroying every ghost in the country. And he'd probably die doing it. It was the same thing Sam would do. It was the same thing their Dad had begun doing before Sam went off to college.

Dean's jaw was clenching and unclenching. He was staring hard at Blaine, sizing him up, taking in the situation, weighing the pros and cons in his head. Sam would have found it comical if it wasn't such a sticky situation. Finally, Dean nodded his head. "Fine," he spat and Blaine seemed to relax instantly. "But you do everything I say, when I say it, no questions." Blaine nodded eagerly. Dean twisted his lips, obviously still uncertain about his decision. "You know how to use a shotgun?"

"I'm a fast learner," Blaine replied, a smile coming to his lips. Dean huffed but grabbed the back up shotgun and threw it at him.

"That's filled with rock salt. You have one shot." Dean walked over to him and put Blaine's hands on the spot where he was to hold the gun. "Here's your first lesson." Dean held the shotgun up, making Blaine move his hands with the motion. "Point," he said and pressed Blaine's hand against the trigger. "And shoot." Blaine nodded, looking down at the shotgun in his hands. Dean looked over at Sam. "Let's go," he said and started off for the woods.

Blaine looked up at Sam as he passed by and Sam gave him a quick smile before following his brother. Blaine was at his heels almost instantly.

The three made their way through the woods, Dean moving his eyes around like a hawk, watching for anything out of the ordinary. Sam had his video recorder out, looking for any signs of the ghost. Blaine was walking next to Sam, every once in a while looking at the screen. They made it to the spot where Blaine's brother had disappeared and Blaine bit his lip, looking around.

"Sammy, you getting anything?" Dean asked.

Sam, who had been spinning in a small circle, video recorder raised, shook his head. "Nothing. Not even interference." Sam put the camera down and looked over at Dean. "It's not here."

Dean looked at Sam with something akin to an apology in his eyes. But just as Dean was about to move forward, Blaine walked over to the side of the small clearing and tilted his head to the side. Sam walked over to him, looking at him before looking back out at the woods.

"What is it?" Dean asked, standing a few feet away, gun raised and ready.

"I hear something," Blaine whispered. His eyes were scanning the trees. Suddenly, they went wide and he started running into the woods. "This way!" he called to Sam and Dean.

"Wait!" Dean yelled. Sam looked at his brother, who was gritting his teeth in frustration, but both started running after the man.

Sam was struggling to keep Blaine in his line of sight. The man was fast and moved through the trees almost expertly. Sam was tall and had to keep ducking under branches and dodging trees trying to keep up with him. He called Blaine's name, but the other man wouldn't stop running. It was because of this, and whatever evil that was working against the, that Sam missed Dean falling behind. When Sam called Blaine's name one more time, yelling loudly, he missed the way Dean had stopped following and was now staring in the opposite direction, spotting something that Sam didn't know was there. And as Sam called Blaine's name one more time at the same time Dean called his, Sam missed the way Dean ran off in the opposite direction, both brothers thinking the other was right behind them.

After a good couple minutes of running, Sam caught up with Blaine, who had stopped and was now looking around. Sam came up next to him, panting. He grabbed Blaine's shoulder, angrily, and spun him around. "What are you doing?" he growled, still trying to catch his breath.

"I heard something," Blaine said, as if that should explain it all.

"What?" Sam almost yelled. "We didn't hear a thing."

Blaine shook his head. "I heard someone crying," he whispered and looked behind him. "A little girl."

Suddenly, Sam was struck with familiarity. His mind drifted back to the dream he'd had the other night. The little girl, crying, screaming, attacking. His eyes widened as he realized it hadn't been just another nightmare. It was actually coming true. Blaine was looking at him oddly, but Sam didn't have time to deal with him. He spun, ready to tell Dean of his revelation.

Sam's heart dropped when he didn't see Dean behind him. He whipped his head about, trying to spot his brother. "Dean?" he called, expecting Dean to come running up any second, out of breath and ready to yell at Blaine for running off. But he got no answer. "Dean!" he yelled louder. When nothing answered again, Sam turned to Blaine, who was wide eyed with fear.

As Sam was about to call Dean's name again, a shotgun blast echoed through the trees. Sam felt his chest constrict with fear and mounting anxiety. "Come on," he told Blaine, now not caring if the man was following him or not. But he heard Blaine moving behind him. He cursed himself. He should have known Dean wasn't behind him. He should have been paying attention to the sound of Dean's footfalls. But Dean had been trained to walk quietly. He'd thought…he'd thought wrong.

Running in the direction of the gun blast, Sam looked around almost frantically. "Dean?" he called, not caring if he was attracting the wrong kind of attention. Sam felt his stomach doing flip flops. This wasn't happening. Hank Reynolds was the last one in the picture, he was the last victim, there weren't supposed to be anymore. But, why then, had the ghost killed Harley Jensen and Adam Beaumont? Why had it attacked Dean in the electronics store, out of its killing grounds? Sam swore under his breath, trying not to be angry with Dean for making them come out here without proper preparation. How was Dean supposed to know this was going to happen? This was how they did it all the time. Rush in, make split second decisions. It was how they operated. It had always worked fine. Until now.

Sam knew he had to concentrate on figuring out where his brother had gone. But as his eyes spotted the discarded shotgun on the opposite side of the clearing, Sam knew. He knew in his heart and in his soul. As much as he didn't want to admit it, didn't want to accept it, he knew.

Dean was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

center Chapter Seven /center 

The key was not to panic. Panic lead to irrational thoughts. Irrational thoughts lead to stupid actions. Stupid actions lead to something Sam was not willing to let happen. He hadn't panicked when Dean had been taken by the Wendigo. He'd acted rationally and had found Dean relatively unscathed and "fine." But then again, now he didn't have a trail of M&M's leading him straight to his brother. Now, he didn't have a clue what had happened to him or where he was or even if he was okay. And the only person who could possibly be able to help had just lost her husband in the same way. But, the key was not to panic, and Sam tried his hardest to remember that.

Yet, he couldn't shake the horrid grasp of fear that had taken hold of his stomach. He knew he wouldn't be able to shake it until he found Dean, until his brother was smart mouthing him and pissing him off as usual. It was annoying and a bit infuriating at times, but it was a constant. It was something Sam would give anything to have back again over the feeling he had now. He'd give anything to be angry and irritated with his brother than to feel like this. Dean wasn't dead. He couldn't be, Sam wouldn't allow it. Not until he saw a body, and probably not even then, he wouldn't accept it. He had to find Dean and that's all there was to it. To hell with the ghost and to hell with Mary Reynolds' feelings. It was Dean's life now, and nothing in the world could ever come before that. Nothing.

Sam burst from the woods, ignoring the branches that kept catching at his clothes. One had snagged his cheek, leaving a thin red line on his cheekbone, but Sam barely noticed. He wasn't running, but felt as though he should be. But running meant speeding up and speeding up meant faster thoughts and faster thoughts meant he was closer to panic. And he had already established that panicking was not on his list of things to do.

Blaine was following closely, his head down, trying to keep his own wits about him. But Sam didn't give a flying rat's ass about Blaine Beaumont now. It was Blaine Beaumont that the brothers had been chasing. It was Blaine Beaumont that Sam had worried about instead of his brother. It was Blaine Beaumont who had distracted him long enough for the damn world to fall apart around him. What an idiot. What a fucking idiot. Dean had told him to listen. He'd told him not to do anything stupid, to do whatever they said to do, but did he listen to that? No. The fucker didn't.

"Sam," Blaine's voice broke through Sam's thoughts. But he didn't turn to look at the other man, knowing he was too furious with him to not yell if they made eye contact. "Sam, I'm sorry," Blaine's voice was broken, soft. Sam heard Dean's voice in the back of his head reply with, i _Damn right you are, but that's beside the point /i ._ But Sam kept walking until he got to the Impala, stopping in front of the car and looking at its sleek, black exterior body. God, Dean had put so much effort and care into this car. It was his baby. But now it only reminded Sam that his brother was in a bad place right now.

"Dean, you better not die before I find you," Sam grit out between clenched teeth. He prayed his brother could hear him. Dean was strong, and stubborn. He knew he'd hold on as long as he could, but Sam didn't know how long that would be. He thought about all the others. About their wounds, their causes of death. Blaine's voice entered his head and he whispered about how badly his brother had been beaten up. Sam had to close his eyes to get all the thoughts out of his head. That was not going to happen to Dean. Not on his watch.

"What are you going to do?" Blaine's quiet voice made Sam wince. He turned and glared at the man, noticing that Blaine's eyes were red. Sam was instantly angry. What right did he have to be sad? It was his brother that was missing, not Blaine's. But Sam calmed himself at that thought, knowing that his anger was being fueled by something other than hatred for Blaine. Besides, Blaine had lost his brother to this thing. If anything, Sam should be lucky that he hadn't found Dean's body yet. Blaine was still looking at him with wide eyes, waiting for directions, anything. He half looked as though he expected to be yelled at. Sam thought briefly about granting him that expectation, but immediately thought otherwise. Blaming Blaine wouldn't change what had happened already. And he needed all the help he could get. He couldn't turn the man away now.

"Mary Reynolds knows something," Sam whispered slowly, obviously trying to keep his voice under control. "I'm going to find out what it is and then I'm going to go find my brother." Blaine started to shake his head, about to ask how Sam planned to do that, but Sam wouldn't have it. "Don't ask me how. But I'm going to find him." He said it more to convince himself than Blaine.

Sam walked around to the driver's side of the Impala and stopped abruptly. He felt like crying as he realized the doors were locked. Since when did Dean lock the doors? Why did today, of all days, have to be the one day when Dean locked the doors? But he wouldn't cry. Not right now. Crying was reserved for late nights, locked away in the bathroom of some dingy motel room, while Dean was sleeping peacefully, safe and sound in bed. Sam let out a low breath and looked over at Blaine. "Dean has the keys," he said forlornly.

Blaine looked at the car sympathetically and then nodded towards his Oldsmobile. "We can take mine," he gave.

Sam eyed the other car as though it were a traitor. It would have to do, though. But as he looked back at the Impala, he saw the yearbook lying on the seat, taunting him through the glass. He closed his eyes, knowing that Dean wouldn't like what he was about to do. "Sorry, bro," he whispered softly as he pulled his arm back and roughly slammed his elbow into the window. The glass shattered and Sam felt a sharp cut form on his elbow, but he ignored it. He reached in and grabbed the yearbook, popping the trunk before he pulled himself out, careful of the glass shards still stuck in the window. He walked around to the trunk and gathered whatever he could carry.

Closing the trunk, he threw a duffle bag at Blaine, who caught it awkwardly before nodding. "I'm driving," Sam said forcefully, holding his hands out for the keys. Blaine looked at him, not knowing how in the world this younger man had managed to gain such control over him. But he obeyed after only a second's hesitation and pulled the keys from his pocket. Sam jumped into the car and started it up. He was peeling out before Blaine even had his door closed.

If there had been a cop on the road between the woods and Mary Reynolds' house, Sam was sure that he would have been pulled over as he drove at least forty miles above the speed limit. He gave a small prayer of thanks that there hadn't been, because he was damn certain that he wouldn't have stopped. Blaine had his feet braced on the floor of his car, one hand gripping the handle above the door, white knuckled. The other hand was tangled into the duffle bag, with the yearbook stuffed securely under his arm. He looked nerve wracked as Sam sped his way through town, but he wisely didn't say anything.

Pulling up in front of Mary Reynolds' home, Sam took a few deep breaths to calm himself down. The last thing that woman needed now was for Sam to burst in there angry, spewing off swear words and smacking her around a bit. Not that he'd ever actually hit her. If he was going to get anything out of her, he needed to be calm, sedate, and maybe he could pull a few guilt trips out just to be safe.

Grabbing the yearbook, he got out of the car. Blaine followed suit, but at a more leisurely pace, obviously still adrenaline shocked from the car ride. Sam ran up the steps, nodding at the officer perched on Mary's porch. The officer gave him a small nod of acceptance and Sam entered the house, looking quickly around and spotting Mary sitting on a couch in the living room. There was a young woman sitting with her, holding her hand. Mary looked a bit better than last time, though it was obvious she had only just recently stopped crying.

Sam came into the room, ready to get down to business. Mary didn't give him the chance. She stood immediately when she saw him, a large smile coming to her face. "Did you find him?" she asked, the hope in her eyes almost sending Sam over the edge. "Did you find my Hank?" She looked around, expecting to see her husband stroll in any moment. But when she didn't see him, she looked back at Sam, frowning. She looked once more and it was apparent in her eyes that by now she had realized someone else was missing. She looked at Sam, horror in her eyes. "What's happened? Where's my Hank?"

Licking his lips, Sam put a hand on Mary's shoulder. "Mary, I know that there's something you're not telling me. You know who the ghost is." Sam knew he was venturing on guesses now, but he could only hope that it would give Mary the incentive to talk. "Piggy is the ghost. You know that, don't you?"

Mary looked at him, horrified, as though he'd sprouted horns out of the top of his head. She shook her head, her face crumpling as she slumped back into the couch. The young woman who had been sitting with her stood up, angrily. "Just who do you think you are?" she demanded. "This woman's husband is missing. How dare you come in here and upset her like that."

Sam glanced at the girl, anger flashing in his eyes. He looked back at Mary. "Mrs. Reynolds, please. It has my brother." At that, Mary froze and looked up at him, her mouth half open, her bottom lip quivering. "Whatever you're hiding from me, I need to know." Mary looked as though she wanted to say something, but instead her face fell again and she put her head into her hands.

"No, no I can't," she gasped between sobs.

Sam clenched his fists, grinding his teeth to keep from yelling at the woman. Didn't she see? Didn't she see that she could help save the life of not only her husband, but of Dean as well? Sam felt like hitting something, but he restrained himself. He took a step forward, willing to keep trying until he got what he needed out of her.

But the front door opened then and all eyes in the room went to the officer who stood nervously in the door. Mary took in a shuttering gasp. The officer took off his hat and Sam felt his heart skip a beat. "Mrs. Reynolds," the officer said gently. "I need you to come with me now."

Mary shook her head, her eyes wide and wild. "What? No…tell me what happened," she said, clutching onto her dress slacks as though they were her only hold on life.

The officer took a breath and put on his most sympathetic look. "Mrs. Reynolds, please…"

"Just tell me where he is!" Mrs. Reynolds screamed, surprising everyone in the room at the ferocity behind her voice. Sam looked down at her and realized she already knew what had happened. They all did.

With one last sigh, the officer looked down, upset at having to be the one to bear the news. "They found your husband's body up near Carl Hannigan's house." He paused a moment, letting the information sink in. "It was the same as the others," he added quietly.

Mary looked utterly devastated. Her mouth was half open and her eyes were staring at the opposite wall. She slid back on the couch and leaned against it for support. The young woman with her took her hand and apologized, but Mary didn't seem to notice her. Sam took a breath, knowing that he was an asshole for doing this, but he wouldn't let the same thing happen to Dean. He got down on one knee and put his hand on Mary's knee, waiting until she looked up at him.

"Mary," he said softly. "Please. You know whose doing this. Please tell me. Don't let my brother die like this."

That seemed to get through to her. She tilted her head to the side and clasped onto Sam's hand, looking at him the way a grandmother looked at her grandchildren when they said they were going off to war, or moving across the world. She patted his hand and nodded, tears rolling slowly down her cheeks, dripping onto her sweater.

"We called her Piggy because she was so chubby," Mary whispered, her eyes going distant. Sam gave a small sigh of relief that he was finally getting somewhere. He got up and pulled a chair close, holding onto her hand as she continued. Blaine had found his way into the room and stood behind the chair. The young woman was leaning back, watching the whole thing suspiciously. "It was just a stupid nickname. She wasn't even that big. But we were kids, and we didn't know any better."

Sam leaned forward, licking his lips, wanting to spur along the story. "What happened?" he asked, trying to be as gentle as possible, fearful that at any moment Mary would shut down and whatever secrets she kept with her would disappear forever.

"It was Carl's idea," Mary whispered, her face losing all emotion, her eyes devoid. "We just all went along with it."

_ i "Come on, Piggy, you're gonna love it," Carl ragged, taking a swig of the beer he held in his hands. Carl turned and looked at the teenagers who were following him. A girl was walking amongst his friends. She looked out of place. Pete Flannery walked directly behind him, his letterman sweater draped over Susan Meyer's shoulders. Matthew Westridge was trailing behind Hank Reynolds, who had his arm around Mary Browning's waist. The girl walking in the middle of the ground was hugging her stomach self consciously. _

"_Where are we going again?" Piggy asked, a lisp evident in her chubby cheeks. She was, by far, the biggest outcast of the group. The others were all sporty, tall and beautiful. Popular kids in school. Piggy was short, kind of chubby, and wore thick glasses, making her eyes look twice as big as they really were. She was the sickly kind, missing days of school at a time for unknown reasons. It was often the butt of jokes around school, coming up with stories as to why fat, dirty Piggy wasn't in school. _

"_You'll see," Carl said, turning to wink at her. "We found it the other day. Well, actually, Hank and Mary found it while they were fucking like rabbits out here." Carl let out a strangled laugh. _

"_Shut up!" Hank spat, but smiled as he pulled Mary in closer. "Just because I snagged myself the most beautiful girl in school," he said and kissed the top of Mary's head. She smiled up at him before turning to look at Piggy. _

"_You found yourself a boyfriend yet, Piggy?" she asked, a malicious grin across her face. _

"_No," Piggy admitted, totally oblivious of the joke that was being made at her expense. "But my Mama tells me to keep trying. There's a person out there for everyone." _

"_Yeah," Carl rolled his eyes and nudged Pete in the ribs. Pete was beyond drunk and laughed a little too loud and a little too long. It spurred Carl on. "Ah, we're here," Carl said, holding his hands out as the group broke into the clearing. _

_Piggy walked to the front and frowned as she saw where they were. "What's so special about this?" She turned to look at Carl. "You said it was something I would die for." _

"_Oh, you will," Carl grinned and walked forward a bit, kneeling down. "Take a look at this." _

_Piggy came forward and kneeled down next to him. "What is that?" she asked. _

_Carl grinned. "It's an open grave," he said, holding his hands out and twinkling his fingers. He gave out a ghostly noise and Piggy glared at him. "You think maybe a zombie popped out of it?" _

"_Or maybe grave robbers came and stole the bones," Susan mocked, sneering at Piggy. _

_Piggy eyed the open grave and shook her head, suddenly not feeling comfortable with the whole situation. "There shouldn't even be a grave yard out here." She stood up. "I'm going home." _

_Carl got to his feet quickly, putting an arm around her shoulders. "What? Come on now," he held his beer up to his friends. "We all brought you out here to show you this and you just want to go home? Piggy, you're one of us now. You don't want to be with your friends?" _

_Piggy eyed him warily. "No, I mean yes. I mean…I'm not scared." _

"_Oh really?" Carl said, eyes lighting up with amusement. "Well, prove it." _

"_How?" Piggy asked, looking from one face to the others. _

_Carl pointed to the coffin in the open grave. "Get in." _

_Piggy's eyes went wide as she looked down at where Carl was pointing. She shook her head. "No, you're crazy." _

"_Oh come on," Carl pretended to be angry. "If you want to be our friend, you've got to prove that you're not a scaredy cat." _

"_I'm not!" Piggy demanded. _

_Carl raised his hands into the air. "Then get in." The air around them had taken on a somber note. Piggy looked at each of them, hoping to get some help from someone. But she was only met with cold eyes. They were all looked at her, waiting. Piggy didn't have many friends. But if this is what it took to have some, then she would do what they asked. _

"_Okay," she said and climbed down carefully into the grave. Her skirt caught on a root and it tore a little. "Oh," she said in disappointment and sadness. "Okay, I'm in," she announced, looking up at Carl. _

"_Get all the way in," Carl said, his face fierce. "Lay down in that coffin." _

_Piggy looked down at it. "But a body was in here once," she said, eyes wide and tearful. She didn't want to do this, couldn't they see that? _

"_You want to be our friend, don't you?" Carl asked, waggling his finger at her. "You can't be unless you lay down so do it!" _

_Piggy bit her lip and looked down at the coffin. She held back tears as she sat down and laid back, feeling dirty and disgusting lying in the coffin. "Okay," she said, her voice breaking with fear. Carl moved quickly and jumped down, slamming the lid of the coffin shut. Piggy immediately let out a scream and started pounding on the lid. "No!" she screamed. "No, please! Let me out!" The fear was so evident in her voice. _

"_Carl," Susan called from above them. "She sounds really scared, maybe we shouldn't do this." _

_Carl glared up at her. "It will only be for a little bit," he growled. "She's got to learn her place in the food chain." He looked back down at the coffin as Piggy continued to scream and cry and pound on the lid. "Little piggies don't make it that far." He latched the lid closed and got up. "Help me bury it." _

"_What?" Hank asked. "Carl, you can't be serious." _

_Carl looked at them, exasperated. "It will only be for a little bit. We'll come back in half an hour and let her out. Stop being such a baby." _

_The group started to pile the dirt on top of the coffin, drowning out Piggy's screams and cries and pleads for help. /i _

Sam stared at Mary with wide eyes. She had stopped talking and now sat breathing slowly, staring off into her wicked memory. Sam didn't know what to think. It was disgusting, cruel, horrible. How could someone do something like that? Sam was used to fighting evil when it came in the supernatural form. But this, this was something Sam didn't know how to deal with. Mary was a human being. She wasn't some monster. But now, sitting in front of her, she looked like the worse kind of monster in the world.

"What happened after that?" Sam asked, unable to keep the disgust out of his voice.

Mary looked up at him, shell shocked at having told her story after so many years of keeping it secret. She started crying again and taking small gasps. Her talking was almost incoherent. "When…when we came back. We were going to let her out and…and everything would be fine. But…but when we got to her. She was dead. She was already dead. We didn't know," Mary sobbed. "We didn't know that she as sick." Sam frowned. "She had epilepsy. She'd had a seizure from all the screaming and she died."

Sam had heard enough. He pulled back, sitting and glaring at Mary. It was all he could do to keep from reaching out and punching the wall over and over again. A person like Mary Reynolds deserved everything that was coming to her. He suddenly didn't feel so bad about Hank or Carl or Pete. "Can you tell me where this was?" Mary nodded and Sam pulled out the map of the woods. He threw it at her and she looked at him in shock. "Then show me," he growled, staring at her hard.

Mary sobbed but pulled a pen from her blouse pocket and marked exactly where the grave was, not even taking the time to read the map. She knew where it was without having to look. She'd seen it so many times, looked at it so many times.

Sam was stewing as he watched Mary draw out where the grave was. She wrote the name of the grave stone above her mark. But he was hardly paying attention. So, he finally knew who Piggy was. Just some poor girl that someone had decided to play a prank on. A deadly prank. How could human beings do something like that to each other? Sam didn't know. Maybe they weren't human beings. Maybe they were just the scum of the earth.

Suddenly, a thought struck him. It struck him so hard that he nearly jerked in his seat. He looked at Mary and grabbed the map right out of her hands, rushing for the door. Blaine watched him go and turned to look at Mary, confused.

Mary shook her head at him. "We were just kids," she said. "We didn't know any better."

Blaine stared at her for a minute before his face formed into a glare of anger. He pointed his finger at her. "You were sixteen. Any sixteen year old would know better. Any human being would know better," he spat before running out the door to catch up with Sam, who was already climbing into the car.

Blaine hopped in, looking over at Sam. "What is it?" he asked, seeing the look of determination, mixed with horror, written on his face.

Sam started the car and sped off. "I know what's happening to the victims," he said, his jaw set in a firm line. This wasn't happening. He had to be wrong. He prayed that he was wrong. But he knew that he wasn't. The bodies, the injuries. Suffocation, blunt force trauma to the back of the head, the scratches, the hours between abduction and finding the bodies, the way they looked like they had been in a fight, the broken hands, missing fingernails. He knew he was right. There was no question.

Blaine frowned. "Wha…what? What's happening?"

Sam swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. i _Hold on Dean, I'm coming. Just please hold on, /i _ he thought to himself as he said the words that had put such determination and fear into his heart.

"They're being buried alive."


	8. Chapter 8

center Chapter Eight /center 

His head hurt. This was the first thought Dean Winchester could manage as he found himself waking up painstakingly slow. He tried to focus and remember what happened. It felt like he had had a few drinks too many after a long night at the bar. But that couldn't be right. He hadn't done that since Dad went missing, and especially not since he'd gone to get Sam. At the thought of his brother, Dean seemed to sober up a bit. Sam. That's right, they'd been out in the woods looking for a ghost, Piggy, or something. Blaine had been an idiot and had run away. They'd chased him and then, Dean saw her. He'd told Sam, but his brother hadn't followed. Fuck, had something happened to Sam?

With that thought, he opened his eyes, hoping to see his brother looking down at him with that worried look that he hated so much. But he was greeted with only darkness, and damn was it dark. Dean couldn't see a thing. He tried to sit up and almost instantly hit his head with a sick thud against something blocking his way. "Fuck," Dean spat, moving his hand up to rub his forehead. It was at that moment when Dean realized something was not right. He stared out into the thick blackness, hoping that any minute a light would turn on and he could see his surroundings. But that wasn't likely to happen.

Raising a hand up, his fingers met with the barrier that had so brutally attacked his head. He felt along it, trying to find its end, but couldn't. Instead, he found corners, where the barrier made a 90 degree angle and started downwards. Like a box. Dean took a deep, albeit shaky, breath and started patting himself down, looking for something, anything that could give him a little light. He found his knife still strapped to his belt. His .45 had fallen out of its hiding spot beneath his jacket, to which he cursed and continued searching himself. The small pouches of salt and Holy Water were missing from inside his jacket. His cell phone was no where to be found. Finally, he felt a lump in his pocket and gave a quiet sound of triumph as he realized it was his keys. His baby hadn't let him down, even in spirit.

Pulling the keys from his pocket, he felt them with his hands, noticing how shaky he was. But he knew the cause for that. It was the fear of what turning on the light would confirm. Something he hoped and prayed and begged not to be true. Finally, he found the small key light that he had insisted on getting after he'd accidentally scratched his car with his keys during a night hunt. He had told his baby that it would never happen again, so he had bought the light. Thank God he had bought the light.

As he clicked the button, a red light filled the small space around him and Dean's breath hitched. Above him was a wooden wall. To the sides of him, right, left, above, below, everywhere there were wooden walls, and they didn't give him much shoulder room. He moved the light to make sure that he was seeing it right, looking at every corner of the box, his hands shaking even more as he realized that he was completely enclosed in this box. And then he made a startling revelation, one that nearly had him crying out in sudden panic.

It was a coffin.

"Fuck," Dean muttered, closing his eyes and opening them again quickly, hoping this was some kind of sick dream. But as he reached a hand up and felt the wooden walls of the coffin again, he knew that this was no dream. Of course it wasn't. Sam was the one who had the dreams. Dean was the one who lived out the nightmares, wasn't that how it went? "Fuck," he whispered again. Now was not the time to panic. Maybe this wasn't what it looked like.

"Sam?" Dean called out, reaching up to pound a fist on the top. He got no reply and didn't like how the pounding had been nothing more than a dull thud. The sound hadn't gone anywhere. i _Because there's six feet of dirt on top of me, /i _ Dean couldn't help but think. He closed his eyes and drew in another shaky breath. "Sammy!" he screamed suddenly at the top of his lungs. His voice only echoed around in the small prison and Dean let out a sound of grief, not too far away from a full out sob. But he wasn't going to cry. Dean Winchester did not cry. Ever.

It was time to assess the situation. Okay, so he was inside a coffin, probably under ground. He had his keys, a knife, and an empty shoulder holster for his gun. He could work with this. No he couldn't, who was he kidding? He was weaponless, unprotected, frustrated, and above all other concerns, he was buried alive. Fucking buried alive. Dean let out a harsh, cruel laugh. He'd thought he'd been through it all. But this? Never had he thought this would happen. There was nothing in Dad's journal that could tell him how to get out of this.

"Calm down," Dean whispered to himself. He shone the key light around a bit more before lowering it to his chest, taking comfort in the fact that, at the very least, he had light. He tried to will the panic away, wanting to concentrate on a way out of this. "How did Uma do it?" he whispered. Well, he was pretty strong. Maybe he could punch his way out of the box too. The wood couldn't be that thick, could it?

Getting his hand ready, he rubbed his fingers, warming them up, preparing them for battle. Then, he clenched it into a fist and, taking a deep breath and holding it, he brought his fist up forcefully. "Ow, fuck!" Dean yelled, dropping the key light and rubbing his now hurting hand. He grit his teeth and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. That was unsuccessful. His fist couldn't break through that wood. But maybe his knife could.

Groping around he found the hilt of his knife. He found his keys once again and stuck them in his mouth, using his teeth to clamp down on the button, lighting the coffin once more. He coached himself, though the words were indistinguishable through the keys in his mouth. He grabbed the knife with both hands and lined the point up to the middle of the wood. Okay, no problem. He'd weaken the wood, burst out, climb through the dirt, and escape this relatively unscathed. No problem. He could do this. He was a Winchester after all and Winchesters were capable of just about anything. i _Even abandoning their own flesh and blood. /i _ The thought had come out of no where, but Dean shook his head, knowing now was not the time to think about that.

Slowly, he began working the knife back and forth, digging a small hole into the wood. He let out a triumphant, yet muffled, cheer as the hole gradually got bigger. He was working it in circles, trying to push the knife deeper into the wood, hoping that it would break through soon. The wood could splinter and crack and he'd be free to climb through the soil to fresh air and light and life. Yeah, ghostie thought he could best the mighty Dean Winchester. Sam wasn't the only one with brains in this family.

But luck had unfortunately forgotten to smile on Dean that morning. As he started to grind his knife harder, his spirits were rising until there was a sudden snap and Dean felt the knife jerk in his hand. He closed his eyes for a second, praying that this wasn't happening. But, looking up at the knife in his hand, he pulled it slowly away and his shoulders fell and he lay himself flat, looking at the broken bottom half of the knife he held in his hand. He looked up and saw the top of his knife still lodged into the wood. There was about two and a half inches left. He groaned and took the key light out of his mouth, looking angrily at the broken knife shard in the wood.

"You bastard," he said between grit teeth. He wasn't sure really who he was cussing at, but it just felt right to do so. He set his face and braced his body with renewed determination, though he only felt it half heartedly, knowing what he was about to do. He reached up and grasped his hand around the knife shard. Without even holding it that tightly, he could already feel the edges of the blade digging into his skin, slicing it with ease. Fuck, this was going to hurt. He gave a sigh and clamped his teeth shut, already anticipating the pain.

He pulled on the shard harshly and the pain was intense as the blade sliced deep into his hand. Fortunately, and it would be the only fortune Dean would be shown, the knife came loose from the wood and Dean closed his eyes, breathing through his nose for a moment, willing away that pain. He'd felt pain before, this was nothing. He'd been in trouble before, this was nothing. His family had gotten him out of worse situations before, this was nothing.

"Okay, Dean," he encouraged himself. "Just do it. Show Uma whose boss." And sucking in one last, tight breath, he started hacking the knife into the wood. With every hit, he could feel the knife dig deeper and deeper into his palm and his fingers. He had to readjust his hold several times when the pain got too intense, when the knife went too deep. Blood was starting to trickle down his hand and wrist. It seeped out of the sides of his closed fist. A few drops fell onto his face and he flinched involuntarily. But he kept at it. Almost there, he was almost there.

But his body betrayed him. More like his hand betrayed him as the knife made one last slice into his palm, this time cutting so deeply that Dean's hand went completely numb. Though, his arm did not, and the hot pain that raced up it made Dean give out a yell of pain. He dropped the knife shard and cradled the injured hand to his chest, not liking the way it was shaking, looking as though it was convulsing into death.

The panic began to set in after that. He could only fight it off for so long and Dean was at the end of his rope. He fought back the tears that threatened his eyes. No, he wasn't going to cry. He would keep his dignity until the very end. Or at least until Sammy came along and let him out. No doubt his little brother was looking for him right now. After all, Sam would never let him down like this. He'd always been behind him.

_ i That's why he shot you in the chest and pulled the trigger of a gun as it was aimed at your head. /i _ Dean shook the thought away. That had been Dr. Ellicott's doing. Sure, Sam had admitted that in a way those were his actual thoughts, but they'd made amends. Dean knew Sam had his back. i _So where was he when that ghost attacked you and buried you alive? /i _ It was true. Dean had run after the manifestation of the ghost and when he'd lost sight of it, he'd turned to see if Sam saw where it went. But his little brother had not been behind him. Then the ghost had attacked. It took him by surprise and he managed to get one shot off, but the rock salt went astray, missing its target. Where had Sam been during all of that? Sam had told him that he had his back. Sam had told him that he was with him, during the hunt, Sam was always with him. But not this time. And not in that asylum. Pathetic. That's what he'd called him. Pathetic and begging for the attention of their father. And Sam was right, that's what had hurt so much. Sam had been right to say those things. Dean had known it was true all along. Sam had managed to escape this life, but it was the only life Dean knew how to lead.

And it was about to end. Why hadn't Sam been behind him? Had he really, truly abandoned him? Just like Dad? Just like Mom? Was he that hated by the people he thought loved him? No, it couldn't be that. Sam had said he'd die for him. He'd said it to his face and Sam was never the lying type. So why hadn't he been there? Maybe he just hadn't heard him. Maybe this whole thing was just a misunderstanding. A misunderstanding that was going to cost him his life. He wasn't supposed to die like this. He didn't know how he was supposed to, but it wasn't like this, alone in the dark. He had always imagined his death as being valiant and brave and awe inspiring. This was anything but awe inspiring. This was fucking messed up.

Dean felt anger, pain, fear and every other emotion he'd ever felt swell up in his chest. The walls were suddenly too close and Sam and his Dad were suddenly too far away. Where was everyone? Where was Sam? Was he looking for him right now? Was Sam out there alone, scared, looking for his lost brother? Dean didn't know. Sammy wasn't a liar, but then again, he had been ready to shoot his own brother in the head.

And then there was Dad. Dad who had failed to come through for him when they went home. Dad who had left him to hunt alone, without a word, without a goodbye. Dad who was now leading them all over the country to risk their lives and fight trivial battles. Dad who was now letting his son die in a coffin buried deep beneath the earth.

"Fuck you," Dean snarled. He said it to his Dad, to the walls surrounding him, to the ghost who had trapped him, to whatever it was that was keeping Sam from finding him. "Fuck you! You hear me!" Dean screamed, pounding his good fist against the top of the coffin. "I'll kill you! I'll fucking kill you! Come out and fight me like a man!" And Dean slammed his fist again and again into the wood, feeling as the skin on his hand split and tore and blood started oozing and knuckles were popping. He bucked and kicked and banged his body around inside the coffin, inside his tomb, inside his inevitable death. He would not go out like this. He would go out fighting.

But when the bone snapped in Dean's wrist and his hand fell limply to his chest, cradling its injured comrade, Dean stopped moving, drawing in trembling, horrified breaths. He squeezed his eyes shut. His body was aching. New bruises and cuts and scrapes now littered his skin, mixing with old scars and newer wounds still healing. But all the wounds in the world didn't compare to the pain Dean felt in his heart as he realized his greatest fear was coming true. The fear that was the reason he was so pathetic, the reason he wanted Dad's approval, the reason he had gone to get Sam in the first place. It was a fear instilled into him when he had watched his childhood go up in flames along with his mother. And it was coming true. If Sam didn't find him soon, he knew it would come true.

He was going to die alone.

Sam didn't think the day could get any worse. It was beginning to get dark, which had struck an odd thought into Sam's head. How had the ghost nabbed Dean in broad daylight? He didn't know why they hadn't thought of it before. It was common knowledge ghosts only came out at night. Dean had said it before, i _The freaks come out at night. /i _ But Piggy had already proved to be anything but an ordinary ghost. And now, she had Dean buried somewhere. That thought alone was eating away at Sam's sanity. Dean was buried alive. God, that sounded awful. He couldn't quite imagine what was going through his brother's head right now. Dean was always the calm one, always collected. He always thought about the hunt, focused on the task, hardly ever showing emotion or fear. But how could Dean not be scared now? How could Dean not be out of his mind with fear and desperation. Sam knew that he would be. He'd probably be giving up hope right about now, crying and screaming and freaking out and begging for his big brother to come and save him as usual. But Dean, his brother who never ceased to amaze him, was probably holding it together better than anyone in the world could. At least, that's what Sam hoped. He hoped he wouldn't find his brother a broken man. Finding his brother dead was out of the question, but there was a very large possibility that Dean had finally met his match, finally found something that broke down those infuriating walls his brother had built up around himself.

"Sam?" Blaine asked from the passenger seat. Sam startled. He'd forgotten the other man was even in the car.

"What?" He hadn't meant to snap, but there wasn't time to feel sorry.

"If Piggy is killing the people who…who buried her," Blaine seemed to have trouble with the words. Sam knew the feeling. Adam Beaumont had been buried alive, Blaine was trying to come to terms with that. "Why did she attack my brother? And why attack Dean?"

Sam shook his head. The truth was that he didn't know. He could sit there and theorize all day, but in reality, there was no way he could ever know why Piggy was killing innocent people. But he knew Blaine needed an answer more than he needed the truth. So Sam gave him the closest thing to an educated guess that he could muster. "Piggy was always picked on and teased, right?" Blaine nodded. "Well, Adam was teasing you when he was taken. And Dean teases people all the time. And I heard that Harley Jensen was a loud mouth. I think she went after them because to her, they were bullies."

Blaine shook his head. "But my brother wasn't a bully," he whispered quietly. Blaine turned and slouched in his chair. "He teased me all the time but he never meant it." Suddenly, Blaine's face crumpled. "He died because he was teasing me?"

"No," Sam said, cursing himself for giving that answer. He hadn't meant to make the man feel worse. "He died because he caught the eyes of a very vengeful spirit. It wasn't your fault."

Blaine was quiet for a moment and Sam thought that he wasn't going to say anything more. But Blaine leaned his head against the window and said, "I hope we find your brother."

Sam had to bite his lip to keep from crying. It was getting harder and harder to keep back the tears that had been threatening to spill over since he'd first realized Dean was gone. "Me too," he whispered, gripping the steering wheel tighter and pushing the gas pedal a little bit faster.

When Sam pulled the car up behind the Impala, he knew his day was going from horrible to fucking horrible as he saw the tow truck that had already hooked up Dean's cherished car. Sam jumped out of the Oldsmobile and ran around the car, pounding his fist on the tow truck driver's side door. It opened slowly and Sam was about to plead and beg for the driver to leave Dean's car alone, but he was surprised into silence when he saw who was sitting behind the steering wheel.

"Conroy?" Sam asked, not knowing what the older man was doing there. He thought he just ran the snack shop and gas station. But of course, some gas stations had tow trucks of their own. Maybe Conroy owned one.

Conroy smiled down at Sam and got out of the truck. "Well, my boy, fancy meeting you here," he said, clapping Sam on the shoulder.

Snapping out of the shock of seeing the older man there, Sam knew he had to get down to business quickly. Dean didn't have time for conversations or formalities right now. Sam pointed to the Impala. "Look, that's my brother's car. We'll be back for it in a little bit, could you please just leave it here?"

Conroy looked at Sam with a frown. He reached over and rubbed Sam's shoulder. "You look stressed, boy. What's wrong?"

"Please, Conroy, can you just leave it here?" Sam begged, growing desperate to run into those woods and find his brother.

"Why sure," Conroy said. "But what's going on? I haven't seen someone look as frantic as you since I hid my wife's chocolate covered caramels." Sam ran back to the car, pulling the duffle bag and a gas can out where he had left them. Blaine got out and nodded to Conroy. Conroy frowned. "If I'm not mistaken, your brother was a lot shorter when I met him before."

Some time in the future, Sam would laugh at that comment. Dean always had been picked on about his height whenever Sam was standing next to him. But anyone who had done the picking usually ended up with a black eye or a bloody nose, unless of course they were a woman, in which case Dean would use it to his advantage. Sam looked over at Conroy. "It has my brother," he said hurriedly and turned to head into the woods.

"Who?" Conroy called after him, making to follow. "The ghost?"

Sam didn't stop and didn't turn around. He didn't want to do this now, he didn't want to explain it to another person. What he wanted, what he was dying to do, was to find his brother and get himself and Dean as far away from Shilling as possible. Blaine, however, was willing to fill the old man in, since Conroy seemed to be following them anyway. He told him about Hank Reynolds and how Sam and Dean had found the year book and how they knew who the ghost was and what had happened to her. "It's a girl named Piggy."

Conroy eyed him suspiciously. "Piggy?" he asked quietly. He frowned but then shook his head. "What kind of a name is that?"

"Guess we didn't get her real name," Blaine said and Sam sighed as he used his arm to maneuver around a branch.

"We didn't need to know it," Sam replied. He stopped and turned, looking at Conroy. "I don't think you should come with us. This ghost is still dangerous."

Conroy waved a hand, shushing him. "Don't you worry. I'm not afraid of some stupid old ghost." Sam eyed him and Conroy gave him a warm smile. "Besides, you'll need someone who can navigate these woods. Don't want you boys getting lost out there. Lots of things that would find you pretty tasty."

Sam wanted to tell Conroy that he didn't care about what creatures were out there. He didn't care if he came across an alligator or a snake or even a fucking shark standing on two feet holding a machete. All Sam wanted to find was the little Piggy who had his brother. And there was not a thing in the world that would keep him from killing it once and for all.

Right after he found Dean.

It had been forever since he'd woken up and Dean was sure that by now, it was starting to look like a lost cause. He'd started feeling sick to the stomach just minutes ago, but was afraid to take too many deep breaths, knowing that the air inside this coffin wouldn't last forever. He didn't know how long he'd been out, so he couldn't even guess how many hours he had left…if any.

So he lay still, with his eyes closed, concentrating on taking small breaths, short and far in between, conserving the air. Though a part of him wanted to just breathe it all in really fast and get it over with. The not knowing when he was going to die was actually killing him faster than anything else could. Sure, he wanted to get out of this alive, but a part of him wanted to end it now. He could see why Adam Beaumont had been killed by a blow to the head. He'd done it to himself. Had hit his head on the coffin floor until he was dead. A sad way to go, but it was a way to go none the less.

But Dean wasn't ready to give up just yet. He still had a shred of hope that any minute now, Sam would come and get him out of here. And maybe he was getting delusional from the lack of oxygen, but he had even started having a small hope that maybe his Dad would show up. Maybe, by some miracle, John Winchester would swoop in and save the day, make things all better, take away his pain. But he knew that was just a hope, one that wasn't likely to come true.

A sudden movement on his arm made Dean open his eyes. He'd dropped the key light some time ago and couldn't feel for it seeing as both his hands were immobile at the moment. So instead, he brought up the limp extremity and trying to brush off whatever had been on his arm. But there was nothing there. Suddenly, another movement was on his other arm. He repeated the process, but couldn't find anything. Another showed up on his leg, another on his stomach, then on his neck, then on his face. Dean flashed back to just a few weeks ago when Sam and him had almost been bug fodder on an ancient burial ground. This is what it felt like. Bugs crawling everywhere.

But as he moved his hands to swipe them away, he just felt skin, nothing was there. Dean felt like laughing, and he would have too if he hadn't been so creeped out and scared. Phantom bugs. Great. Buried alive, broken wrist, possible dead hand, and now there were phantom bugs.

They crawled all over him and Dean suddenly knew how all of the victims got the scratches all over their bodies. It wasn't from the ghost, it was from themselves. Scratching at the invisible bugs until they had torn into their own skin. Well, he wasn't going to do that. He could ignore a few lousy bugs. He closed his eyes again, trying not to think about the creepy, crawly feelings that were exploring his entire body. He hated bugs. He always had but now he hated them more than anything in the world.

One especially powerful itch shocked Dean as it ran across his face. He let out a small yelp and involuntarily scratched himself with his limp, knife damaged hand. He swore as he felt his own fingernails dig across his nose. It stung, but it wasn't deep. Nothing too permanent. A bright ray of hope, Dean tried to comfort himself. His face wasn't damaged permanently, that meant life could go on.

Another powerful itch had Dean scratching into his left arm. Then, all of the itches were powerful and Dean tensed his entire body, pushing his feet on the end of the coffin. No, no, no. There were no bugs crawling on him. It was just the ghost messing with his head. He could handle this. He had to handle this. Think, think of something else. Don't let it win. Don't let it win.

And, with nothing else to distract himself from the feeling of spiders, worms, and other types of crawly insects marching over his skin, Dean did the only thing that calmed him down in situations like this.

He started humming Metallica.


	9. Chapter 9

center Chapter Nine /center 

Sam had found a new enemy in the concept of time. It had been just over two hours since Dean went missing. Two hours. It shouldn't be taking this long. Every minute that passed by was a minute of oxygen his brother was losing. He didn't know how long it took for someone to suffocate while buried alive, but Sam knew that his brother was running out of time. And they had yet to reach the hidden cemetery that Mary had told them about. Conroy was leading the way, going as fast as a man his age could go. Sam wished he could go faster, but in truth, he needed the man. He had already lost his bearings.

Finally, Sam had had enough. He needed to find Dean, now. He rushed to catch up with Conroy, who was using a tree to help him navigate the increasingly muddy ground. He put a hand on the old man's shoulder. "Are we close?"

Conroy turned and smiled at him before tipping his head in front of them. "Sure are, it's right up that hill."

Sam didn't wait for the old man to finish. With a burst of renewed determination, he hurried forward, climbing the hill with the help of his free hand. The other clutched the duffle bag close to his body. When he made it to the top, his heart dropped. There were maybe ten or fifteen different headstones. Sam suddenly realized that he had no clue which one Dean was under, if he was even under one of them at all. Blaine was at his side in a moment and then pointed to one of the headstones. "That's the one she's buried under," he said.

Sam nodded. "Start digging," he gave the command swiftly, eyes scanning the entire cemetery. It was old, really old. The headstones were falling apart and moss covered. The ground was dry, thankfully, but there didn't seem to be any disturbance in the thin layer of plant life that covered it. Blaine withdrew two hand held shovels from the bag and handed one to Sam.

"Where are you going to start looking?" Blaine asked, already heading to the headstone Piggy's forgotten body was buried under. He kept his eyes on Sam, however, though Sam never answered him.

Feeling horribly helpless, Sam realized that even if Dean was buried somewhere in this cemetery, there was no way of knowing where. And unless, by some grace of God or whoever was watching out for them, there was a miracle and he found it on the first try, he could be here for hours. Hours that Dean did not have. Sam felt the tears that he'd been holding back start to build up in his eyes. He had failed his brother. It was a pain worse than death. First Jess, now Dean. He was cursed, that had to be it. Something out there hated him and all the people who truly mattered anything to him were dying. Why? Why was this happening to him?

"Dean!" he yelled, hoping beyond hope that he'd hear a shout back. He prayed that he would hear Dean yelling at him to hurry his slow ass up and get him out of the ground. But he was met with only the sound of the woods and of Blaine's hand shovel digging into the earth above Piggy's grave site.

Sam ran his hands through his hair, holding it back out of his eyes as he looked around the cemetery one last time, not yet ready to give up on finding his brother. If ever he needed his Dad, now would be the moment. Sam didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to help his brother, he didn't know how to rush in and be the hero. That was always Dean's job. Dean was the hero, Sam was just along for the ride, wasn't that how it was? And this one time when his brother's life was depending on him, Sam couldn't pull through.

Pathetic. That's what he'd called Dean. He'd said all those nasty things to him and yet, they hadn't talked about it, seriously talked about it. He knew that somewhere deep inside, he'd hurt Dean in a way that never should have been allowed. Had he even apologized to him? Had he even taken the time to tell Dean that no matter how frustrated he'd get, he still loved him? Blaine's words from earlier were echoing in his head, like some sort of sick mantra determined to destroy Sam. _I loved my brother. I don't think I ever told him._ God, had he ever told Dean? Had he ever sat Dean down and told him that he was his rock that kept him going, that he was glad and proud to have him as a brother, that he loved him more than life itself? No, that would have been classified a tender moment, and Dean didn't do tender. He never did, and now he never would.

But he couldn't just stand here and despair. He'd find Dean, dead or alive, though he preferred the latter. There was no way he was going to let his brother stay buried in this fucking town, out in the middle of the fucking swamp with the alligators. Dean hated alligators. If he found Dean, he'd get him as far away from any alligators as possible. That was a promise.

So Sam walked along the tombstones, trying to mentally tell himself which one was marking his brother's hiding spot. He let his guard down for only a moment and a tear slipped down his cheek, but he quickly brought a hand up and wiped it away. He'd cry when he found a body. And maybe a little if he found his brother alive, but only just a little. Didn't want Dean thinking he was a wuss or anything.

Suddenly, Sam's eyes were cast on one particular tombstone. A strange feeling was floating through his chest. He tried to pin what it was, but couldn't. All he knew was that this is where he needed to be digging. Something in his gut told him so. This was right. Dean was here. All of the other tombstones had given him strange vibes, dead vibes. But this one, this one was alive.

Sam didn't know how and he didn't know why, but he was sure Dean was buried here. He couldn't explain it, he just knew. He fell down in front of it, digging his shovel into the dirt. Yes, Dean was here, he was sure of it. He knew by the way his stomach had clenched and his chest had tightened. He knew by the way his body was now moving out of his control, digging like a poor man who had just found the X above the treasure. He knew by the voice in the back of his head telling it to be true.

It took another hour of frantic digging, way more than Sam would have liked, but it was like music to his ears when his shovel hit something hard. At the same time Sam looked up from the hole he'd dug, maybe four or five feet into the ground, to call out to Blaine and Conroy that he'd found something, he heard Blaine give an excited yell. "I found it!"

"Keep digging it out," Sam said, unable to keep the gleam out of his eyes. He looked over at Conroy. "Give me a hand," he said. Conroy walked over, bringing the bag over as he did so. "Hand me the knife in there," Sam said, now shoveling dirt away with his arms, trying to clear off as much as the coffin as possible. He'd seen the ugly heads of nails holding the lid down. Everything in the world was trying to keep him from his brother.

But as Conroy handed him the knife and Sam shoved it between the lid and the side of the coffin, Sam felt his heart speeding up. He felt anxiety and fear and hope rise up his chest and constrict his throat. He didn't know what he'd find. Would he find Dean bloody and broken? Dead? Alive? Sane? In tact? He didn't know. But he was about to find out.

He popped two of the nails out and threw the knife up out of the hole. Squeezing his fingers beneath the lid, he ignored the pain of the new scrapes and curled his hand around the wood. This was it. _Dean, please be alive. _He thought to himself. i _Please let him be alive. /i _

At the same time Sam pulled the lid off the coffin, something from inside of it lashed out with an angry yell and a grunt. Sam hadn't been expecting it and something sharp slashed him across the cheek, not deep, but deep enough to make it bleed. But Sam was quick, even through the sudden pain, and he felt his defense moves kicking in automatically. He grabbed the arm of his attacker and held it under his own. He was about to move and disarm his opponent when he caught sight of who it was attacking him. Sam's eyes widened in both shock and relief.

Dean's eyes were frantic, but squinted against the sunlight. Though bloodied and bruised, it was his brother, it was Dean. And he was staring at him without recognition in his eyes, the sun keeping Dean from seeing who was holding him so awkwardly. Sam felt his chest squeeze up with panic again as Dean tried to pull his arm free, gritting his teeth at the effort it took.

"Dean!" Sam called, bracing his brother's body with his free hand. Dean was pushing against him, but the motions were weak. His brother was grunting and struggling like an animal caught in a trap. Sam would have easily been able to over power his brother. But right now, the last thing his brother needed was another person attacking him. "Dean, hey, it's me," he tried, seeing Dean's still frantic eyes trying to focus themselves against the sun. "It's Sam," he said through short breaths. "Dean?"

Dean's eyes slowly seemed to focus and as they made eye contact with Sam's, Dean's entire body seemed to relax. Dean was sucking in air, the small gasping noises that accompanied it didn't go unnoticed by Sam. Dean let out a small sound that sounded as though it were a muffled sob and he frowned. "Sam?" he whispered, his voice low, gruff, shaky.

"Yeah," Sam cooed, letting go of Dean's shoulder and moving his hand up to cup the side of Dean's face with brotherly love. "Dean, it's okay," Sam said, looking down at the hand he still had trapped under his arm. Dean was holding the shard of a knife in his hand. In his incredibly bloody hand. Sam reached back, grasping onto Dean's wrist, but looking back into Dean's eyes. "Dean, let me have this," he said, prying Dean's fingers from around the shard. He didn't like the way his brother was shaking all over, or the way his forehead was beaded with sweat and his skin was so pale he looked dead. "Let me have this," he whispered again as Dean's hand finally let go of the knife shard.

Sam threw it away with utter disgust, but tried to no let it show on his face. His brother was staring into his eyes, panic still raw in his face. Sam moved in, positioning himself so he had one arm wrapped around his brother and the other holding his chest, keeping him in place. "It's over," he whispered as Dean took in a shuttering breath, tears welling up in his eyes. "It's over," he assured him again. "You're okay." It was a statement, not a question. He didn't expect Dean to answer. Of course he wasn't okay, but Sam was telling him that he would be. "I've got you, Dean," Sam whispered as Dean's body continued to shake and Dean leaned into his brother, his head resting back against Sam's shoulder.

Dean's eyes strayed away from Sam and he eyed the dirt walls that were surrounding them on all sides. A worried look marred his face and he closed his eyes, turning his head to the side, his face close to being buried in Sam's shirt. "Get me out," he whispered brokenly. Sam tightened his grip on his brother, holding him in place as he tried to stand up, finding it hard to do so in the small hole. "Get me out, Sammy," Dean's voice broke and Sam felt his heart break along with it.

"Okay," he assured him, looking up at Conroy, who was leaning down, trying to lend a hand in the extraction of his brother.

"He all right?" Conroy asked, eyeing Dean closely.

"No," Sam whispered, the word sounding horrible to his ears. "Come on, Dean," he said a little bit louder to his brother. "You need to stand up." Sam pulled his brother, not liking the weakness behind Dean's movements. But after a few moments, Dean was on his feet, shaky, and unable to stand on his own, but he was on his feet.

Blaine had joined Conroy at the edge of the grave. "Come on," he said, reaching a hand down, along with Conroy. They grabbed onto Dean's shoulders and Sam let go of his brother only long enough to leap out of the grave and reach down to help lift Dean up and out.

Wrapping his arms around his brother, Sam moved Dean as far as Dean's shaky legs could take him. They gave out just a few feet away from the grave and Sam had to brace himself on the tombstone to keep from falling to the ground as his brother went down hard. But Sam caught him too and helped to sit him up against the tombstone. Here he was, Sam assured himself. Dean, in the flesh, alive and breathing. He felt like pulling his brother into a bear hug and never letting go. But he restrained himself to just sitting close to his brother, holding him up with one hand and brushing the other hand through Dean's hair which was covered in dust and, to Sam's horror, blood.

It was time to assess the damage. There was a gash on Dean's temple, just under his hairline. Blood had trickled down the side of his face, caking in his ear and continuing to stain his shirt. There was a scratch on the bridge of Dean's nose that had bled and trickled down the front of Dean's face, though only sparingly. Blood had been smeared across Dean's cheeks and nose. There were very visible and sore looking scratches on Dean's neck, unmistakably made by fingernails. Bruises littered Dean's entire body, from what Sam could see. There were several on his face, on his neck, and he had no doubt they continued beneath Dean's shirt onto his chest and back. But the thing that worried Sam the most were Dean's hands. One looked as though it had gone nine rounds against a meat grinder while the other was swollen, the wrist twice the size as it should be, probably broken, and the fingers curled in, limp and useless.

"God," Sam whispered after he'd taken stock of Dean's injuries. He looked into his brother's eyes only to find Dean watching him closely, glossy eyed but alert. Sam wrapped an arm around Dean's shoulder, pulling him in closely, trying not to jostle his injuries. Sam hugged him to his chest for a moment, almost afraid to let go. Finally, he pulled back and looked at Dean, who didn't seem too perturbed by the show of affection. He actually looked a little better. Sam ran his hand over the gash on Dean's temple before gently holding his chin and making Dean look him square in the eye. It was a stupid question, but he had to ask it. "You all right?"

_ i Please, Dean, please just say you're fine. Make some wise ass crack about the whole thing and play it off as no big deal. Say anything, Dean. Show me that you're still here. /i _

Dean was taking his time to answer and Sam felt his eyes water up. But finally Dean licked his lips and a smile played across his face. It was glorious to Sam's eyes. Dean leaned his head back and looked at the sky. "About time you showed up." Sam couldn't help it as he let out a laugh and withdrew his hand from the side of Dean's cheek. Ah, the clichéd answer. Thank you, Dean.

"Yeah, got held up in traffic," Sam joked, though his face was anything but humorous. Sam watched as his brother closed his eyes, taking in deep, calming breaths. When he opened them again, Dean looked less panicked, less fearful. That was a good thing. Sam had never seen his brother so scared before. Not even on that airplane when they were trying to take out the demon. Dean had faced his fears head on then and yeah, Sam had ribbed him about it, but Dean had held himself together pretty well. But when Sam had opened that coffin and had caught a look at Dean's eyes, he was looking at a whole new person. One he hadn't seen since they were kids. The fear, the emotion, it had all been so clearly written on Dean's face.

Dean's head rolled to the side and Sam saw his eyes fall slightly. But soon after they widened and Dean started squirming and pushing against Sam, who held him still, looking to see what he was looking at. Dean's eyes were staring at the grave, the one he had just spent three long hours in. Sam moved instantly, positioning himself between Dean and the grave. Dean kicked at it with his foot, but settled down again, though his face was still tight. "It's okay, Dean," he whispered, willing his brother to calm down again. Dean seemed to do just that, staring instead at the woods and grass and sky. Anything but that damn grave.

Blaine came over, quietly offering Sam some bandages and gauze. Sam took them gratefully, smiling at Blaine. The man walked back over to the other grave and continued digging out the coffin there. Sam would deal with that in a bit, right now he had his brother to worry about. He picked up Dean's mangled hand and winced as he saw just how deep the cuts were. He hoped Dean hadn't severed any nerves.

"Dean, I'm so sorry," Sam said as he grabbed a bottle of water from the duffle and started rinsing out the wounds. Dean flinched, but didn't say anything. He turned to look at his brother and Sam couldn't stop himself before he let out all the thoughts he'd had inside his head while his brother had been missing. "I said I had your back, but I didn't, and I'm sorry. I thought you were right behind me. If I would have known you weren't…I'm so sorry, Dean." The tears were coming now, whether Sam wanted them or not. He could do nothing to stop them.

"Sammy," Dean started but winced as he tried to sit forward. Sam pushed him back gently, starting to bandage the hands. It was only temporary. Dean needed to go to the hospital. The wounds looked bad. Dean sighed and shook his head, trying to pull his hand away from Sam. But Sam was quicker and caught him before he could get away. Dean tried to jerk it away giving a soft plea of, "Sammy." Sam looked into his eyes, seeing something new there. "This can wait until later."

"Dean," Sam said, exasperated. "You're bleeding all over the place. You're really hurt, I'm getting you out of here and to a hospital."

Dean shook his head again, his eyes closing slightly at the effort. "No, Sam," he said. "You finish this." Then he looked at him with hard determination. "Burn the bitch."

Sam began to protest. He began to tell his brother that the ghost could wait and right now Dean was top priority to him. He gave Dean that look that told his brother he thought he was crazy. It was the look that said Dean was being stubborn and Sam wouldn't have any of it. Dean wasn't in control this time around, it was Sam's turn to take over. But what Dean said next cut off anything Sam had intended to say.

"I didn't think you'd come." Sam felt as though someone had literally smacked him across the face. The words left a stinging feeling all through his body, like the moment of panic right before something horrible happens. It hurt, it hurt like hell. Sam leaned back, staring hard at the side of his brother's face. Dean's eyes were closed, obviously struggling to keep control of his emotions. Dean wasn't one to let something like that slip out, so the fact that it had scared Sam shitless. Suddenly, Sam was struck with the gravity of what his brother had just been through. Alone, in the dark, for three and half hours with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company. Dean had had three hours to dwell on whatever fears he had locked deep inside. Three hours to wonder if anyone cared enough about him to come. Three hours to convince himself that he would be left alone to die. And what hurt the most was knowing that he was the one who had planted that seed within Dean.

Sam watched his brother still trying to hold tight to whatever emotions and thoughts that were struggling just beneath the surface of his shattered façade. That night, in the asylum, Sam had stared his brother in the eyes and told him that he was sick of following him around, sick of taking orders. He was pathetic, weak. And when Dean had asked him if he hated him enough to kill him, Sam had hardly waited a second before he pulled the trigger.

There was no way in the world Sam could begin to understand what that must have been like. Sure, he'd had the shapeshifter ordeal, but who had come in and saved him in the end? Dean had. Though Sam had been looking up into the face of his brother as he strangled him, he'd known it wasn't him. But when Dean had been flat on his back, hurt and frightened, he had looked up into Sam's face and he knew it was him. And when he'd pulled the trigger, all four fucking times, he had pulled it out of hate, hate for his brother. It was unjustified and completely untrue. Sam didn't hate his brother. There were things about him that he hated, but he didn't hate him. Sam needed to make Dean understand that.

"Of course I came," Sam whispered and Dean's eyes opened slightly, looking down at him. At the sight of Sam's stricken face, Dean tilted his head forward, ready to listen to what Sam was inevitably going to say. For so long, Dean had been the one to make things right. Dean had been the one assuring Sam that they would find Dad. Dean had been the one to protect Sam from the evil things of the night. Dean had been the one to pull Sam out of the fire, twice. Finally, Sam knew that Dean had passed that role onto him, if only just for the moment. God, that look in Dean's eyes, those wide, open, fearful eyes. Dean was opening himself up to Sam, waiting for his little brother to either reach in and fix what he had broken, or destroy Dean forever. Sam wasn't going to lose this opportunity. He knew it would only present itself once.

"Dean, I can sit here and apologize over and over again for what I said to you in that asylum. But we've been down that road and it doesn't work." Dean's eyes teared up a bit. This was obviously going to be hard, for both of them. "What I'm going to do, is sit here, look you in the eye and tell you that I don't hate you. There's not one bit of me that hates you. I meant it when I said I would die for you. And I'll say it again, as much as it takes for you to believe it. I need you to know, I'm begging you to believe that I would never leave you alone to face this, any of this. You're my brother and no matter what you think, no matter what I said to you or what I'll ever say to you in the future, nothing will change that. I'll never leave you alone."

Sam stared into Dean's eyes, willing his brother to soak in the words, to use them to stitch together whatever had broken inside of him. Dean's face was moving, his lips pursed, teeth biting at them. He was trying to keep them neutral, keep them in a straight line, but they were slowly bending downwards and at last, Dean's barrier broke and Sam watched as his brother let go. Sam smiled, rubbing Dean's shoulder as the tears slowly came, trying to let him know that he wasn't going to judge him if he broke down and cried right now. Hell, Sam wouldn't judge him if Dean full out wept. After what he had been through, Dean was entitled to it.

But, Dean gathered himself, sucking a deep breath and letting out a low, gruff chuckle. He shook his head, smiling after a moment. "You realize that you just used up at least a years worth of chick flick moments." Sam smiled, giving his brother's shoulder another squeeze as Dean put his humor on hold for a moment. "I used to think it was something I did," he started and Sam kept himself quiet, knowing his brother needed to get this out. "When Dad left, I was convinced I'd done something wrong. And then I came and got you. I tried so hard to not chase you off too. And I thought, that any day I'd wake up, and you'd be gone. Just like Dad. Just like Mom."

"Dean…" Sam watched as his brother's resolve broke. Dean bowed his head, looking at his broken, mangled hands.

"I'm trying, Sam," he whispered. "Honest to God I'm trying. I just don't know what to do anymore."

"Dean," Sam commanded and his brother looked up again, his eyes sullen. "I don't know why Dad left. But I know it wasn't because of you. And, you may piss me off sometimes, because you really are a pain in the ass, but you're not chasing me away." Sam smiled, trying to get Dean to reciprocate the action. He did, but only half heartedly.

"I just," Dean started but shook his head. Sam encouraged him to go on by nudging him a little. "You and Dad have such purpose behind your need to kill this thing. He has Mom, you have Jess. I feel like I'm just along for the ride."

"What?" Sam shocked. "Dean, you have as much of a reason to be doing this as either of us. She was your Mom too. You've lost just the same as we have."

Dean smiled after a moment and looked at Sam. He looked all too tired for Sam's liking. "Yeah, seems that I've lost my mind." Dean struggled to sit up a little straighter and Sam helped him, not liking how hard it was for Dean to move around. "Sitting here like pussies crying about everything." Sam shook his head, though he couldn't get the smile off his face. "Let's just burn the bitch so we can get the fuck out of here. I need to find a beautiful woman who will take pity on my wounds and you're just not doing it for me, Sammy."

"All right," Sam laughed. "You just sit tight and watch this bonfire. Then, we're getting you to a hospital." Dean didn't seem too thrilled about that, but he laid his head back and tried to relax anyway. Sam noticed that Blaine had stopped digging and was trying not to eavesdrop. Conroy, on the other hand, was watching them as though he were watching a movie. Sam went to rise, holding onto Dean for as long as he could. But when he got up, he bent back over and made Dean look at him. "Oh, and Dean?" Sam added.

"What?" Dean asked, eyes half closed.

"I love you, man."

"Get to work you sap."


	10. Chapter 10

center Chapter Ten /center 

Sam was hesitant about leaving Dean's side, but he knew that his brother was right, they needed to dispel this spirit once and for all, before someone else got hurt. If they didn't, if Sam put his personal worry for Dean in front of his duty to kill off this monster, the next victim could very well be Mary Reynolds, or worse, another innocent victim. Sam didn't even want to think about the ghost trying to kill Dean again after figuring out she didn't finish the job. Dean wouldn't be able to handle that again. And neither would Sam. So, Sam had weighed out the options and decided that he'd burn the bones quickly and then get Dean to a hospital. Dean's wounds were worrying him, but the fact that his brother was still conscious and quite able to still boss Sam around told Sam they weren't life threatening.

"Hey, Blaine," Sam called and Blaine popped out of the hole he had dug above Piggy's remains. "Grab that gas can and let's get this over with." Sam kneeled in front of the grave, looking down at the coffin that held the bones. He imagined what it must have been like to be standing there, with kids taunting and teasing. It must have been awful. Sure, Sam felt sorry for her, but that didn't stop the protective rage he felt towards her after she had chosen his brother, of all people, to take revenge on. And Adam Beaumont and Harley Jensen and every other victim she'd killed. Piggy had to go, that's all there was to it.

Sam accepted the gas can from Blaine and set it down at the side of the grave. The both of them jumped down as Conroy walked over to lend support if they needed it. Sam quickly pried the coffin open with his knife and Blaine helped him pull it the rest of the way off. Dust filtered up at them and Sam turned his face away, but looked down to make sure they had the right place. Blaine started coughing and muttered a sickened, "Oh God," before turning and climbing out of the grave. Sam could easily see what had upset him.

The rotted corpse of Piggy was nothing more than a skeleton with skin. She still wore her clothes and the glasses on her face were broken, half hanging off. Her hair, which was white and stringy, stuck to her head with decay and rot. Her jaw hung open in eternal fear. The bottom of the coffin was stained with body rot and the smell of a forty year old corpse wafted up at them. There was a reason they embalmed the bodies of the deceased.

Sam stood, feeling his own stomach do a quick flop of disgust. He forced away the sickness though, knowing he had to focus on what he was about to do. He was about to put Piggy to rest. He threw handfuls of salt onto the body first. Then, grabbing the gas can, he began to pour the gasoline over the remains, making sure to drench every inch of the body. He didn't want to take any chances. And he couldn't help but feel extra vicious towards it knowing that she had been the one to hurt his brother.

When the gas can was empty, Sam climbed out of the grave, the gas fumes mixing with the decay and wafting out behind him. He put a hand over his stomach as another wave of nausea ran through him. But he lifted his eyes and looked over at Dean, reassuring himself that his brother was still there. Dean sat tiredly in the same spot he'd left him. His head was back and he was looking at the sky. Sam knew it would be a while before his brother would be back to normal. Not just physically, but mentally. Of course, he'd pretend to be okay, but Sam guessed that there would be continuing ramifications from this ordeal. He sighed, praying his brother wouldn't shut him out again.

Pulling the matches out of his pocket, Sam turned around, nodding towards Blaine, who was bent over as though he was about to throw up. Blaine took a few steps back from the grave. Conroy moved away as well and headed back behind Sam. The old man looked troubled. "Don't worry," Sam said, tearing one match out of the matchbook. "This will take care of your ghost problem."

Conroy's voice was soft when he asked, "Do you really have to do this?"

Sam, not looking back at the man, struck the match and lit the matchbook. It went up quickly and he walked to stand over the grave. "Unless you want her to kill this entire town," Sam held the matchbook over the grave, but he stopped when he heard Dean pull in a gasp.

"Maybe I do," Conroy's voice had changed. Sam turned, feeling the flame getting closer to his fingers. The whole world seemed to stop as he saw what was happening. He felt like his feet had just been pulled out from beneath him. Conroy was pointing a rather large sized pistol straight at him. Desert Eagle to be exact. Sam didn't rightly care about the heat on his fingers anymore. A gun shot wound would hurt worse. "Throw that away," Conroy ordered. Sam stared at him in disbelief.

"What are you doing?" Blaine demanded. "We need to kill this ghost."

Conroy's lips turned up into a cruel smile. Sam didn't know the man could look cruel. He was like a completely different person. Conroy dipped his head and kept eye contact with Sam. "Now, I didn't spend forty years learning how to bring her back just so you could kill her again."

The words struck Sam hard. Piggy wasn't a ghost, she was a familiar, a spirit that had been conjured by someone. That made sense, that made perfect sense. He didn't know why he hadn't thought of that before. They'd dealt with familiars before, he knew what they were like, what they were capable of. That's why Piggy could move around during the day. That's why she could leave her place of death. Sam looked over at Dean, seeing his brother now struggling to stand up, ever the hero. The pain on his face was evident and he was finding it hard to do without the use of his hands, but he was determined.

"I said throw that away," Conroy growled, his voice growing darker.

Sam looked back at the old man. He should have known. He should have known the minute Conroy said the ghost was taking out the scum of the town. Sam held the burning matchbook over the grave. His fingers wouldn't hold on much longer, the heat was already intense as the flame crept down the matchbook towards his skin. Sam gave another glance at Dean, making eye contact and talking to Dean with his eyes. i _I'm sorry, Dean. /i _ Dean's eyes widened and he began shaking his hand. But Sam had already made up his mind. "Go ahead and shoot me," Sam growled, glaring at the man.

Conroy didn't hesitate to notch the pistol. Sam was ready to let go of the matchbook, his fingers already loosening. But Conroy didn't pull the trigger like Sam had anticipated. No bullet came flying at Sam's head. Instead, to Sam's utter horror, Conroy swung the pistol around, pointing it straight at Dean. Dean froze halfway to a standing position, leaning awkwardly on the tombstone. His eyes were wide, but his face held that recognizable anger Sam was so accustomed to. "I said drop it," Conroy said in a calm tone. "You don't want him to die after you spent so much effort making sure he lived." Sam didn't hesitate a second before he threw the matchbook to the ground, outside the grave. "Put out that fire, son," Conroy said.

Sam grit his teeth and stepped on the burning matchbook, unable to do anything but comply while Conroy had the gun aimed at his brother. There was no way he was going to let his brother die at the hands of some crazy old man after everything they'd just gone through. He didn't like this position they were in. Conroy with a gun aimed at Dean, who was too weak to do anything about it and Sam standing there with no weapons and no way to stop him. He'd been stupid. He'd forgotten the very first lesson his father had ever taught him, keep your weapon with you at all times while on a hunt. This was a hunt, and where were his weapons? Laying useless in a duffle bag way out of Sam's reach. He hadn't thought he'd need them. He'd been so caught up in trying to get to his brother. But he'd never expected Conroy, of all people in this town, to turn on them so suddenly.

"Why are you doing this?" Blaine spat. Sam was wondering the same thing. He glanced at Dean and saw that his brother was moving again, though extremely slow. The movement was bringing a sweat to his face, flustering his cheeks, but Sam saw the look in his eyes. Dean had slipped into hunter mode. Sam would be ready if his brother tried to do anything. He looked back at Conroy, not wanting the old man to catch on.

Conroy let out a cruel laugh. "Because for forty years, I've been trying to prove they killed her. For forty years I tried to get the sheriff, the FBI, anyone to help me prove they'd killed her. But no one could, no one would. And they lost interest. I took it into my own hands. I brought her back, for justice. She deserves that." Conroy's hand started to shake and Sam sucked in his breath. He was afraid the old man would accidentally pull the trigger on his brother.

"Piggy's death was an accident," Sam said, trying to sound calm.

"They murdered her!" Conroy screamed, his hand shaking dangerously. Sam's heart was doing flips inside of his chest. He wanted that gun pointed away from his brother, now. "They murdered my sister and none of them paid for it!" Sam's eyes widened a little at that.

"Piggy was your sister?" Sam asked.

Conroy pointed a finger at Sam, his face fierce with rage. "Her name was Ellie!" But his face softened a little. "She was my baby sister. My whole world. Taken away from me and I couldn't do a thing about it." Conroy's eyes grew distant. "But now she's back. And she's going to get her revenge."

Sam shook his head. "Conroy, that thing you brought back isn't your sister. She's killing innocent people. And she won't stop. Don't do this man, let us put her to rest. Put down the gun."

Conroy shook his head. "No, you're wrong." He sighed and looked at the ground. "She's making the world a better place. Arrogance will be the death of mankind."

It was at that moment when Dean chose to make his move. Sam had caught him out of the corner of his eye. Dean pushed himself off of the tombstone, running forward and sacking Conroy in the midsection. The old man let out a yell, flailing his arms as they went to the ground. The gun went off and Sam heard Blaine grunt behind him. He flinched, but first things first. Sam ran over to the two on the ground. Conroy was getting his bearings straight and Dean didn't look like he could hold him for much longer.

Sam grabbed a hold of Conroy's arm, twisting his wrist until the gun fell away limply. He kicked it away before waiting until Dean edged himself off the man. Sam flipped Conroy onto his stomach, twisting his arm behind him and kneeled down on the small of his back. When he was sure he had Conroy secure, he first turned to Dean, who was panting but gave him a smile, which assured Sam he was fine. Then he turned his head to look at Blaine, remembering the man's grunt when the gun had been fired.

Blaine was still standing, which gave Sam instant relief. He was gripping his arm, blood seeping from between his fingers. He was grimacing, but nodded when Sam looked at him. "You okay?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Blaine grit out.

A scream suddenly filled the air and Sam was instantly on alert. He looked towards Dean, who looked at him with renewed fear in his eyes. "Sammy, you have to burn that body," he said, breathing hard.

Sam turned to Blaine. "Do you think you can hold him?" Blaine nodded and took Sam's place on top of Conroy, who had started to yell and buck. Sam made sure Blaine had a good hold on him before he let go.

"You can't do this!" Conroy screamed. Sam ignored him, fishing through his pockets for another packet of matches. He was crestfallen when he couldn't find any. He ran to the duffle bag, rummaging through it almost frantically, cursing at himself as he did so. What kind of idiot was he that he only brought one pack of matches? The mistakes were pilling up on each other quickly.

"Sam," Dean called, sounding strained. Sam turned and saw his brother trying to reach into his pocket with his limp right hand. His face was showing the intense pain. Sam quickly went to him, but Dean had already managed to slip the Zippo between two of his fingers and pull it out. Sam winced again at the blood he left on the matchbook and his jeans. "You owe me a lighter," Dean joked. "I just got that one."

"Thanks," Sam clapped his brother on the cheek. Dean just looked exhausted, not even caring that his brother had shown affection in a joking way. Sam got to his feet and hurried to the grave. He flipped the Zippo open and lit it up. But just as he was about to toss it into the grave, he heard Dean yell his name. He didn't have a chance to react as something slammed into his side, sending him flying. He absently noticed that the Zippo had fallen out of his hand, but when his hip slammed into a tombstone and he flipped over it, head hitting the ground before his body completed the aerial, all thoughts of the Zippo and everything else slipped away.

Sam lay stunned for a few moments, the wind knocked out of him. There was a sharp pain throbbing on his right temple and he could feel something sticky start to trickle down the side of his face. Stars were flashing in and out at the corners of his vision, but he concentrated on pushing them away. He slowly started to regain himself, starting to feel the ache creep into his bones. Nothing was broken, he was sure of it, but there'd be plenty of bruising. But as his senses started to come back to him, he could hear the commotion on the other side of the tombstone, which was now blocking his view.

Starting to pick himself gingerly from the ground, he wondered what had hit him. He was still sort of dazed. But when he heard Dean yell his name, he was suddenly alert again. He got to his knees and looked to see what was happening. It was utter chaos. Blaine lay out cold a few feet away from where Sam was. A wind was circling around, leaves and debris caught up in the force of it all. In the middle of the wind barrier, Dean and Conroy were in an intense scuffle. Conroy had gotten hold of the gun again. Dean, through some amazing burst of will and pain tolerance, had his hands wrapped around Conroy's gun hand.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, using the tombstone to help get him to his feet. He started to go to them, but the wind shifted suddenly, instead of swirling, it was plunging at the two on the ground. Sam felt his heart leap into his throat as it slammed into them. Dean let go of Conroy, covering his head and curling in on himself. But it wasn't Dean who screamed out in pain then, it was Conroy.

Sam watched, horrified and confused as the gun was yanked from Conroy's hand, which was crudely bent at an awkward angle with a sharp crack. Conroy let out another scream before a look of utter disbelief came to his face. "No!" he screamed as his body started to be lifted from the ground. "No! I brought you back!" he screamed in terror. Sam watched the old man claw at the grass as he was being dragged across the ground, towards the grave Sam had just removed Dean from. "Ellie! It's me!" Conroy begged. But then his voice turned angry. "I brought you back you bitch!"

Wasting no more time, Sam rushed forward, spotting the Zippo discarded on the ground. As Conroy was dragged inside the grave with one last gut wrenching scream that seemed to echo and bounce all around them, Sam lit the Zippo and tossed it into the grave. Immediately, the screaming transformed itself into a high pitched, ear shattering wail. Sam rushed to his brother, getting down on the ground and covering him with one arm, while protecting himself with the other. The wind around them intensified, threatening to tear them apart before it suddenly burst into a white light and stopped altogether.

Sam looked up slowly, half expecting the thing to attack them again. But a quick glance around showed no sign of the ghost. He looked at Dean, who was looking around too. When Dean was sure he didn't see anything, he laid back and closed his eyes. "God I hate ghosts," he murmured. Then he opened his eyes and glared at the gash on Sam's forehead. "You all right?"

Sam patted him on the shoulder, smiling. "I think I'll live." He turned to see Blaine slowly sitting himself up. He had a good sized lump on his forehead and what was sure to be a black eye soon, not to mention the bullet wound to the arm. But when he saw Sam, he seemed to relax a bit.

"Is it over?" Blaine asked, eyes wide.

Sam looked over to Piggy's grave, seeing the flames still burning, smoke rising away. "Yeah," Sam nodded.

"What about Conroy?" Blaine asked.

Sam's head turned to look at the other dug up grave. Dean lifted his head as well, looking over there. Sam helped him sit up before leaving his side and walking slowly over to see what had become of the man. As he got to the edge of the grave, he put the back of his hand to his mouth at the sight. Conroy lay half in the coffin, half out. His eyes were wide open, staring eternally at his death. Sam knew he was dead without even checking. Conroy's back had been folded the wrong way. "He's gone," Sam said.

Blaine started sputtering and Sam looked at him. "I don't understand. Why'd she attack him?"

That was a good question. Sam's eyes flickered to Dean, who was starting to sag as he sat. Okay, it was time for the hospital. Sam went over to him, wrapping one of Dean's arms around his shoulders and hefting him to his feet. He looked back at Blaine, the answer having come to him. "He was trying to kill Dean." Blaine just looked confused. But Sam couldn't explain it more than that. He didn't know how to explain it more than that. He just knew it was right. Sometimes, these things couldn't be explained. That's what made them supernatural.

"Hey, Sam," Dean said, his voice winded and weak. Sam looked at him, wondering how the hell he was going to get Dean all the way back to the road. He'd carry him if he had to. But he kind of hoped that Dean would be able to walk out of this one. 

"Yeah?" Sam asked, shifting his arms around Dean, trying to get him in a better position.

"Do me a favor," Dean said, his half closed eyes drifting to Sam's face.

"Anything," Sam replied urgently, his worry flaring.

"When I die, just cremate my ass," Dean grinned and Sam couldn't help but chuckle a bit, though the thought of Dean dying wasn't a welcome image at the moment. He turned them around, knowing it would be a slow, long journey back to the car and then to the hospital, but his brother would make it.

"We'll worry about that when the time comes," Sam answered before they started their long trek out of the woods.

Two days later, after a trip to the hospital and a good thirteen straight hours of sleep, not to mention a few hours flirting with the nurse, Dean was up and rearing to go. Sam could only comply, itching to get as far away from this town as possible. Turns out, Sam had to get stitches for the gash on his forehead and a gash on his elbow that he had forgotten about. But he could handle a few stitches. Dean had gotten the short end of the stick. One hand was wrapped up in bandages, stitched and fixed and promised to work again perfectly as soon as it healed. The other arm was in a cast, making it hard for Dean to do just about everything and making it even harder for Sam to keep his patience up. There were multiple other wounds on Dean's body, but Dean didn't seem to pay any attention to them.

But now, they were ready to go, and the hospital, minus a few of the nurses, was ready to see them go. Sam stood at the front desk, filling out the release papers. Dean was standing by, looking at his hands in disgust. Sam could only smile. He knew the next few weeks would be interesting until Dean regained the use of his hands. He'd be almost impossible to live with, but Sam felt like he was up to the task. In fact, he was looking forward to it. Dean was at his mercy. Though he would never do anything hurtful, Sam was not going to pass up this golden opportunity to pay his brother back for all the times Sam had been sick and Dean had been the bed Nazi.

Though, Sam knew that he'd have to be gentle for a while, at least. When the nurses had allowed him inside Dean's hospital room while Dean was sedated, he hadn't missed his brother's tossing and turning, nor the soft moans from the nightmares. Sam hoped the nightmares would go away in time. He'd help Dean whatever way he could with that.

"You're all done, Mr. White," the nurse smiled at him.

Turning to his brother, he clapped him on the back and said, "Let's get out of here, gimpy."

Dean scoffed but retorted with, "I could still kick your ass." Sam had no doubt.

They walked out the door and Sam was surprised when they bumped into Blaine the minute they got into the parking garage. Blaine smiled at them, looking happier than Sam had ever seen the man. "Hey!" he said. "I was just coming to say goodbye to you guys."

"You leaving?" Dean asked.

Blaine nodded. "Yeah. Time to move on. I'm going to go stay with some of Adam's friends for a while. They invited me and I couldn't resist. Besides, they got a killer swimming pool."

Sam chuckled and cuffed him on the arm. "Good."

Blaine shifted a little on his feet. "So, the police are declaring the case closed. They're pinning it on Conroy. I think they just didn't want to deal with it anymore."

"I bet," Sam smiled.

"Hey," Dean said and without thinking reached for his pocket. He stopped when he realized it would get him nowhere. But Sam had already picked up on what Dean had in mind. He reached into his own pocket and pulled out a pen.

"Here," he said, taking one of Blaine's hands and writing down their phone number on it. "If you need anything, give us a call."

Blaine smiled at them. "Thanks." He looked over at Dean, who looked frustrated that he couldn't do anything. "I had your car brought up here," he said.

Sam turned to see his brother's face light up. "You did?" he asked.

"Yeah," Blaine nodded and pointed behind Dean. "Right over there."

Dean turned and gave out a sound of pleasure. "Oh, my baby," he sighed out. "Daddy's home."

Sam and Blaine shared a chuckle as Dean walked towards his car. Sam turned to look at the man, seeing the somberness that had settled on his face. He knew the feeling. "You going to be okay?" Sam asked.

Blaine nodded and took in a breath. "Yeah," he looked at his feet. "I mean, I'm going to miss my brother, but…he wouldn't want me to shut down because of this. Now that I believe in ghosts, he'd probably come back and haunt me just to get back at me." There was humor there, but the smile on Blaine's face didn't reach his eyes. "What about you?"

Sam nodded. "We'll be okay," he said with confidence. "We're gonna keep looking for our Dad."

"I hope you find him," Blaine said sincerely.

"Yeah, me too."

Blaine smiled and reached out a hand. Sam shook it and gave him a smile back. "Oh, we filled your car up with gas and everything, but we didn't have time to fix the window."

Sam's eyes widened as at that very moment, Dean yelled, "Sam!" Wincing, Sam gave a sheepish grin.

"What the hell did you do to my car!"

center The End /center 


	11. Epilogue

center Epilogue /center 

Sam sat on the bed, flipping through the channels on the television, trying to find something good to watch. He had gained ultimate control of the remote when it had become obvious that Dean either had to push the buttons with his tongue or find a way to leverage the remote and push it with his only operable finger, the thumb on his left hand. Sam had decided he didn't want Dean's slobber all over the buttons and Dean had decided it really wasn't worth the effort. So Sam was currently trying to find a show that would irritate his brother the most. Revenge was sweet. So many times Dean had won the battles for the remote. Now, glory would be Sam's.

Both brothers were finding Dean's hand predicament to be both amusing and frustrating at the same time. Dean had at first played it to his advantage, taking pleasure in having Sam wait on him hand and foot. But there were some things that Dean wanted to do for himself and was utterly aggravated when he realized he couldn't. It'd taken him a half an hour to figure out how he could successfully go to the bathroom without requiring Sam to unzip him, which in all honesty, neither of them would have found pleasant.

But currently, Dean was waging a war against food utensils as he sat at the table trying to figure out how he was going to eat the sweet and sour chicken in front of him. Sam glanced over at his brother when he suddenly gave a triumphant hoorah and saw that he had finally managed to get a fork in between his thumb and the cast on his left hand. Dean grinned and looked up at Sam. "Take that, bitch," he spat playfully.

Sam didn't say anything as he watched his brother try to stick a piece of chicken with the loosely held fork. After a few minutes, Dean bent down and got his chin involved to apply enough force to spear the meat. When it was finally in place, Dean lifted his hand slowly, the fork teetering dangerously close to slipping out of his thumb's grasp. The look on Dean's face was almost too much to Sam and he had to hold back his laughter. He'd never seen his brother concentrate so hard, with his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth, and his eyes looking childishly determined.

When the chicken finally was engulfed in Dean's mouth, he yanked the fork back and it immediately slipped out of his grip, clanged on the table tauntingly, and then fell to the floor where it lay still, teasing Dean with it's shinning forkedness. Dean leaned over to eye it, chewing slowly. He stared at it for a while and when he finally swallowed his food, his eyes rose to meet Sam's, expectantly.

"Take that, bitch," Sam mocked Dean's earlier statement and made it a point to lean back on the bed and knit his hands on the back of his head. Dean just continued to stare at him before he too leaned back in his chair, a dejected, pouty look on his face.

"Are you really going to let your poor brother starve?" Dean asked finally, when the staring competition got them nowhere.

Sam shrugged. "That depends," Sam said, the coy grin still on his face. "Are you going to keep dropping that fork and making me pick it up or are you going to let me help you eat so the fork never drops in the first place."

Dean licked his lips. "No way in hell am I letting you feed me," he said in a low voice.

"Then yes, you can starve," Sam answered and turned to look at the television. "Oh look, a documentary on chimpanzees. You could take notes. They don't have opposable thumbs either."

"Fucker," Dean spat and leaned over once again to look at the fork. He sighed before looking back at the chicken in front of him, trying to determine if there was another way. The slow grin that spread across his face gave Sam the idea that maybe he should have just picked up the fork. Dean cleared his throat and leaned forward, using his teeth to eat the chicken right off the plate. He sat back up and chewed excessively to show Sam. When he swallowed he grinned cockily and said, "Just remember you have to be seen in public with me."

"We're not going into public any time soon," Sam countered with a glare.

"We'll see about that," Dean said. "Oh, maybe I'll get spaghetti. That'll be fun." He made a slurping sound to accentuate.

Sam sighed and shook his head. "You're going to make these next three weeks impossible, aren't you?" he asked.

"Sure am," Dean answered, leaning down to pick up another piece of chicken. He held it between his teeth and sat back up, raising his eyebrows at Sam before he let it fall into his mouth. "And I'll love every minute of it."

"You're an ass," Sam said. He stood up and started getting ready for bed. "There's nothing wrong with accepting help, Dean."

Dean snorted. "Hey maybe I could learn how to use a fork with my toes," Dean said suddenly, ignoring Sam's comment. Sam sighed as he slipped out of his jeans and pulled back the covers on his bed before he slid into it. "I've seen people with no arms who paint with their feet. They sell that crap for big bucks."

"You've so much tact, Dean," Sam said sarcastically as he fluffed his pillow and rolled over, his back facing Dean, watching the television. "It's a wonder you're not more successful with the ladies."

"What?" Dean spat incredulously. "I'm successful," he defended lamely. "The ladies can't resist me."

"You know, you do a lot of talking, but I never see any action," Sam countered. His voice was playful and he looked over his shoulder at his brother, who had gotten to his feet and was now in the process of trying to wiggle out of his jeans with only the use of one thumb. When his brother succeeded, he turned to give Sam a glare.

"Fine," Dean said, slipping beneath the blankets and giving a content sigh to be laying down again. Sam watched him carefully. Dean was still horribly sore and bruised. Even through all the light banter they spat at each other, Sam could tell Dean was still bothered by what happened. They could make light of Dean's injuries, but Sam knew that his brother was frustrated with how severely he'd be limited until he got the use of his hands back. Dean didn't like not being in control. He didn't like not being able to function to his full capacity. Sam couldn't blame him. "The next time I hook up with a chick, I'll bring her back to the motel room and we'll do it right of you, how about that?"

Sam scoffed and rolled back over, eyeing the television again. "Sick," he uttered. Dean gave a laugh at that and the two brothers fell into silence. Sam could hear his brother messing with something on the table and after a few minutes, he gave a loud sigh. Sam rolled over to look at him and saw Dean reaching out with his left hand, trying to flick off the lamp next to his bed. "Just ask, Dean," he said, the taunting and joking out of his voice. He knew it was hard for his brother to ask for help. He wouldn't make it harder for him if Dean was willing to put his pride aside for a minute and just ask.

Dean let his hand drop and he looked across at Sam. They stared at each other again for a moment before Dean's look turned into a glare. "You're not going to turn it off, are you?"

"Not until you ask," Sam said.

Dean growled and rolled onto his back, shifting the covers up a bit and staring at the ceiling. "Then I guess we'll sleep with the lights on," he grumbled.

Sam sighed and thought about just reaching out and turning the light off out of pity, but knew if he did it now, Dean would never learn to just ask. He watched Dean stew silently for a moment before he shrugged and said, "Suit yourself." Then he rolled over and muted the television, giving Dean at least that. There was always compromise.

He half hoped that Dean would just cave in and ask already, but after a few minutes, Sam rolled over again to look at his brother only to find that Dean had actually fallen asleep. He sat up a little to get a better view, making sure that Dean wasn't faking just to get his way. But even as Sam was watching him, Dean rolled onto his side and smacked his lips. Sam half smiled and reached to turn off the lights.

A few hours later, after Sam had clicked off the television and had fallen asleep, he was woken by his brother's sounds of distress. Sam was immediately awake. He looked and saw his brother was caught, yet again, in another nightmare, no doubt reliving the time he'd spent locked inside the coffin. Sam rolled out of bed and stepped over to Dean, leaning over him. He placed a hand gently on Dean's shoulder and whispered, "Hey, Dean." His brother didn't seem to respond, only continued to whimper and cringe. Sam gave him a light shake and added, "Dean, come on, wake up, it's just a dream."

Dean came awake with a start, taking deep gasps of breath. His eyes stared straight ahead at the wall, but Sam knew that Dean had acknowledged his presence by the way he'd hooked his thumb around one of Sam's fingers. After making sure Dean knew it had just been a nightmare, Sam patted Dean's shoulder with his other hand and made to go back to bed, but Dean's thumb didn't let go of his finger. Sam frowned down at him. The nightmare must have been intense. He sat down on the side of Dean's bed, watching as Dean closed his eyes and didn't say anything.

Sam reached out and rubbed Dean's shoulder in gentle circles, letting him know that he was okay, that he wasn't trapped inside a coffin, alone and dying. Pretty soon, Dean had fallen back to sleep. Sam watched his brother's face for a moment. What a role reversal. Sam wasn't used to sitting with Dean when he had a nightmare. His brother didn't have them often, even as a kid, but when he did, he'd usually gotten over them pretty quickly. This was different for both of them.

But Sam sat with Dean the rest of the night. Not just because he wanted to make sure Dean was all right and didn't have another nightmare. Not just because he knew that he'd probably get nightmares of his own, about losing his brother. Not just because he wanted to keep Dean in his sight, to remind himself that his brother was still there.

Sam sat with Dean until morning because, with the only working finger he had, Dean had silently asked Sam to stay.

Who was he to deny him that?


End file.
